Vengeance
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Sam and Dean have an argument. Dean goes out for a night on the town. They're Winchesters, so this isn't going to end well. Hurt Sam.
1. Pretending

**Author's Note: **You didn't think I was gone for good, did you? ;-)

Anyway, with all the long stories I'm working on taking more time than I expected, and a little break before the next update to _Our Echoes Roll_, here's some gratuitous hurt Sam and guilty Dean.

Thanks (as ever) to Cheryl.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Summary:** Sam and Dean have an argument. Dean goes out for a night on the town. They're Winchesters, so this isn't going to end well.

**Setting:** Sometime after _Adventures in Babysitting_ but before _The Born-Again Identity_. Put it where you like. :-)

* * *

**Vengeance**

**Chapter I: Pretending**

Dean didn't look at Sam as he walked into the motel room and dropped the duffel full of weapons on the nearest bed. He continued not looking at Sam as he took a long drink from his flask – _Bobby's _flask.

It wasn't that he was mad at Sam. It was just that he _couldn't _meet his brother's eyes just then. It made him feel like a coward – or worse – but he couldn't _bear _to look at Sam and see the truth that Sam was trying to hide. He couldn't bear to acknowledge that Sam was going slowly crazy.

And Sam thought Dean didn't know. He thought Dean couldn't _see_. It was a sign of how far they'd gotten from normal, from _their _normal, that Sam thought he could _hide_ the fragile state of his mind from Dean. It was like he didn't know that Dean was tuned to everything his little brother said and did, like he didn't know Dean's big-brother radar would pick up on the slightest change of posture or tone.

Dean knew.

Dean was just letting them both live the deception that Sam was fine, because…

Because what _else_ was he supposed to do? Admit that Sam was going crazy and Dean didn't know how to fix it? List his failures as a protector and as a big brother? Oh, Dean could do _that_. He'd begin with dying and leaving Sam by himself, trace the horrible two years that followed Dean's return, make a rest stop at the part where he let Sam jump into Lucifer's Cage because he couldn't think of any other way to stop the Apocalypse and then couldn't figure out how to get his soul out for _eighteen months_, and then end where he stood by like an idiot while Cas broke his brother's brain.

Oh, yeah. Dean could see _that _happening.

He couldn't admit, even to himself, that Sam wasn't OK. Dean was dead certain that God had fled to Narnia and never intended to come back; that was the only way to explain the fact that Sam's reward for saving the world was that he got to see Lucifer everywhere he looked.

So Dean did the next best thing. He let Sam pretend he was fine.

He hated himself for it, but he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't fix _Sam_. He had to let Sam be strong enough for both of them, because one of them had to be strong and it wasn't Dean. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him.

* * *

Sam watched, trying not to frown and not quite succeeding, as Dean put on his jacket. His older brother wasn't quite _drunk_ – Dean would probably have to down half the contents of a brewery to get drunk now – but he wasn't exactly sober either.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

It didn't work; Dean looked up and glared at him. "To find a bar."

Sam hesitated. He knew Dean wouldn't take kindly to any attempt to suggest restraint, and Sam had had a hard day. He'd been thrown around by a vengeful spirit, had the contents of a bookshelf dumped on top of him, and then choked by a possessed department store mannequin. (Seriously, who would have thought those things could move their _fingers_?) His back was bruised. His neck hurt. He had the beginnings of a headache. He was pretty sure he had some hairline fractures in his ribs, too.

Finally, to top it off, Lucifer had been sitting in the backseat of the car and laughing at him all the way back to the motel.

Sam really wanted nothing more than to get a hot shower and sleep for the next fourteen hours.

And, really, Dean was a big boy. If he _wanted _his liver to fail before he hit thirty-five, there wasn't a lot Sam could do about it.

_Yeah, right._

Sam didn't even bother pursuing the thought. He knew he was only going to get brushed off, and probably yelled at, but all the same he had to at least _try_ to get Dean to stop drinking away his sorrows.

"Dean, if you want to talk –"

"I don't want to talk."

"Dean," Sam ventured, "I know how you feel about Bobby, man. I just think –"

"Well, _don't_," Dean snapped. "Quit trying to _help _me, Sam. I'm not a teenage girl. I don't want to _share _or cry on your shoulder and I don't need help. I'm dealing."

"You're _drinking_. That, and fuelling your obsession with Dick Roman. It's not healthy –"

"Excuse me for trying to save the world."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. I know we have to stop them, but you can't make it personal –"

"Sam," Dean growled, "listen to me. I don't want your help. I don't need your help. If you want to do something useful, get some useful intel on Roman instead of bitching at me. Or better yet, try to get your head straight."

Sam flinched. "Dean –"

"I mean it," Dean snapped. "I don't know what's going on up there, Sam, but until you sort out your issues, they're going to be a liability. I can't even trust you to have my back right now because as long as Lucifer's in the picture you could wind up getting us both killed. I need to know you're not going to go crazy on me –"

"Dean, I'm _dealing _with it –"

"You've been _dealing with it_ a lot worse lately. You think I haven't noticed? You know what's worse than being drunk, Sam? Seeing Lucifer everywhere."

Dean stormed out, leaving Sam too stunned to go after him.

Sam knew he was messed up, but he hadn't imagined that Dean thought he was so messed up that he couldn't be trusted.

The slam of the door had barely stopped reverberating when Sam's cell phone began to ring, cutting into his thoughts. He glanced at it. It was a number he didn't recognize.

Sam took the call.

"Hello?" There was no answer, although he could hear someone breathing on the other end. "Hello," Sam tried again. "Who is this?"

Still nothing, although the breathing hitched and quickened.

Sam sighed – he didn't have time for this – and ended the call.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. Same number. Sam was tempted to throw the phone at the wall, just to hear the smash of glass, metal and plastic.

Instead, he picked up. Again.

"Hello?"

"Sam!" It was a child's voice, high and terrified. "Please, is that Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "Who is this?"

"It's – please don't hang up – it's Jacob."

"Jacob?" Sam racked his memory. He couldn't remember any –

Wait.

"Amy's son?" Sam asked, his voice, despite himself, shaking a little. "That Jacob?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Please don't hang up. I have to talk to you. _Please._"

"Sure," Sam said. "What is it?"

"I need help," the boy said, his words punctuated by sobs. "I – I don't know what to do. My mom told me I could call you if – if I ever needed anything. She said you'd help. You're not like the others. You won't hunt me. Please."

"Jacob –"

"Don't say no. Don't. You _can't_. I don't…. I don't know what else to _do_."

"But –"

"_Please._"

Sam sighed. "Look, give me five minutes, OK? I'll call you back."

"Sam –"

"Five minutes," Sam said, hanging up.

He pressed Speed Dial 1.

* * *

Dean didn't bother taking his phone out of his pocket. He knew it was Sam. And he really couldn't handle a conversation with Sam right now.

None of this was Sam's fault. Dean knew that, too.

_And_ he knew he'd hurt his brother when he'd lashed out. He hadn't meant to. Dean wasn't _cruel_, not to Sam. Letting the kid pretend he was OK when he wasn't was one thing. Throwing his problems in his face, especially when Dean, after those first couple of weeks, hadn't done a damn thing to help him with them, was another thing altogether.

He'd seen the flash of pain in his little brother's eyes, and he'd hated himself with all the concentrated energy he usually applied to things that hurt Sam.

But that hadn't been enough to make him stay and fix it. He was too tired. He needed to lose himself in a bottle of Jack and a hot girl.

He'd buy Sam doughnuts in the morning. It was an easy out for Dean, and it made him feel like even more of a coward to take the absolution he knew Sam would offer willingly. But it wasn't like it was _news _that Sam was a brave kid. Dean couldn't imagine going through a year and a half – a hundred and eighty years – of a Hell far worse than Alastair's had been and still being vertical and mostly coherent at the end of it.

Dean ignored the phone, even when it began to ring again, and drove. After all, there was no way he could hate himself more than he already did.

* * *

Sam looked at his phone. Dean wasn't answering – Sam had tried four times. The fourth time he'd left a message asking Dean to call back. He hadn't given any details – who knew how many inside men Dick Roman had working for RIM? – but he'd made it clear that it was important.

And Dean hadn't called.

Sam found himself not feeling as surprised as he'd expected to feel.

That made it worse.

Before he could think about it too much, the phone rang. Although it wasn't Dean's name that flashed on the screen, he was still disappointed when he heard Jacob's voice.

* * *

It was the eighth call – or possibly the ninth. Dean didn't know. Dean didn't want to know.

He let it roll to voicemail again, knowing Sam would bitch at him in the morning. Chalk that up to another apology Dean owed his brother. They never ignored each other's calls. _Never_, no matter what. Not if they were pissed at each other, not if they were in a library, not if one of them was in a girl's room about to get lucky.

And what if Sam was in trouble?

Dean pushed that thought away. Sam wasn't in trouble. Sam _couldn't _be in trouble, not in trouble he didn't know how to handle. He was just being his girly self, wanting to call and have a chick-flick moment. Dean knew he owed Sam about eight hundred thousand of those, but he'd deal with it later. Hopefully Sam would have fallen asleep by the time Dean got back to their motel room.

* * *

Jacob had broken down and cried for ten minutes straight the last time he'd called.

Sam was torn. He had to help the kid – it went against every instinct to listen to a sobbing child, monster or not, and do nothing about it.

He _had _to help the kid.

But he wasn't stupid, and he couldn't discount the possibility that it might be a trap. Sam had known Amy, but he didn't know Jacob, and Dean _had _killed the kid's mother. Right in front of him. Sam would be sore if he were in that position.

One way or another, he didn't want to run off after Jacob without letting Dean know. He didn't want his brother to come back to the motel room, find him missing, and panic.

And he was starting to worry about Dean. Dean had been pissed, yeah, but they didn't ignore each other's calls. Not with the kind of work they did. Not when a phone call could mean that your brother had been backed into a corner by two werewolves and a vampire and needed backup.

* * *

Dean heard the phone ring. Again.

The girl – Jasmine, he thought, although he couldn't really be sure; all he knew was that she was sizzling and willing – frowned a little. "Do you have to get that?"

In answer, Dean pulled out his phone and flicked it to silent.

"There you go," he said, dropping it on the table next to his jacket. "I'm all yours, darling."

Jasmine smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.

* * *

Sam suppressed the urge to sob when he heard Dean's voice say, "This is Dean. Sammy, leave a message. Anyone else, tell me how you got this number."

"Dean." Sam's voice was shaking pathetically, but he couldn't help it. His head was full of horrible pictures of the car crashed into a tree with Dean unconscious and bleeding all over the steering wheel. "Dean, call me back." And, God, it didn't take much blood loss before it started to get dangerous. "I just need to know you're OK. _Please._"

* * *

"Sam, _please_," Jacob sobbed. "Just listen to me."

Sam sighed. "OK. What is it?"

"There are hunters after me. Sam, I haven't killed anyone. I promise. My mom – she taught me how to survive, and I told my dad, and he's got a friend who works in the coroner's office. I _swear _I haven't killed anyone, Sam. I tried to tell them, but they came after us anyway and we had to run."

"Which hunters, Jacob? Do you know their names?"

"I don't know." The kid was full-on crying now. "_I don't know._"

"Jacob – OK, listen to me. Where are you?"

"With my dad. Boston."

"Boston. OK. Listen, we're a few hours away. Dean's not here right now, but he'll be back soon, and then we'll come to you."

"Not Dean."

"Jacob –"

"I don't want Dean to come."

"Jacob, I have to bring him –"

"He killed my mom!"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know, Jacob. I know, and I'm sorry. Dean's not a bad person. If it's true that you haven't been killing anyone, he won't hurt you."

"Just you," Jacob said. "Not Dean. Just you."

Sam sighed. He couldn't blame the kid. "We'll see," he said. "I still need to talk to Dean. I'll call you when he's back, OK? For now you just keep your head down and stay out of sight, and we'll be there in the morning."

He ended the call and tried Dean's number again.

* * *

The cell phone screen flashed silently, lighting up the small bedside table. A few feet away, on the bed, the cell phone's owner had fallen into a post-coital doze.

After several seconds, the screen stopped flashing.

The room was completely dark.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Evil place to stop? Please review!


	2. Awakening

**Author's Notes:** So I gathered that you guys wanted me to _positively_ finish this story. *g*

Thanks to Cheryl, as always.

For reviews, thanks to Katy M VT, Sparkiebunny, Kathryn Marie Black, kiwimoonelmo, WinchesterHaunt, doyleshuny, twomom, nupinoop296, ssandycub, PutMoneyInThyPurse, Kirabaros, SandyDee84, stelladelnordxd, BranchSuper, SPNMum, Jane88, giacinta, Scribble2Much, d767468, LH, Priya723 and godsdaughter77.

* * *

**Chapter II: Awakening**

"Dean, please, _call me_."

Sam didn't bother saying more than that. Dean would know he was worried, and if that wasn't enough to make his big brother call him back, nothing would be.

Sam tried not to think about what would happen then.

He heard a sharp rapping that made him jump out of his skin. He felt silly a second later when he realized it was just someone knocking on the door.

Maybe it was Dean back early.

Sam almost ran to the door. He flung it open, just managing to suppress the disappointed exclamation when he saw that the man who was standing outside most definitely _wasn't _Dean. He was even shorter than Dean, to begin with. He had blond hair and startlingly blue eyes.

"Sam Winchester?" The man asked.

"Yeah. May I help you?"

"Mr. Winchester, may I come in? My name is Owen Ford."

Sam sighed. "_Christo._" The man's eyes stayed blue, although they now looked a little startled.

"I'm sorry, Christo? Is that a code word?"

"Wait here."

Sam shut the door, padded to his duffel, and pulled out a flask of holy water. He went back to the door and opened it again. "Here. Drink some."

"Is it –"

"Just water. Drink."

The startled expression on the man's face gave way to suspicion. He took the flask, sniffed it, shook it, and finally sipped tentatively. When nothing happened to him, he took a longer drink.

Sam took the flask back. "Wait here." He shut the door.

He grabbed a stick of chalk and, from memory, drew some symbols and runes in front of the door. If the man was some species of monster, he wouldn't be able to cross the threshold.

He opened the door, fully this time. "OK. Come in, Mr. Ford."

Owen Ford stepped inside, blue eyes darting around the room. He didn't react to anything, although the muzzle of a shotgun was poking out of the weapons bag and Sam's Taurus was in plain sight on his bed.

"So Jacob wasn't lying about this hunter thing," he said.

"I'm sorry, Jacob? You mean – the kid? _Jacob? _You _know _him?"

"You don't know? I thought he'd spoken to you," the man said. "You – I understand that you knew his mother. Amy." Sam nodded. The man went on, "Jacob is my son."

Sam stared. "_Your_ son?"

"I thought you knew Amy had a son."

"Yeah, but I thought…" Sam trailed off. What _had _he thought? He'd known that Jacob had to have a father, obviously. He'd just, somehow, never thought about the guy _specifically_. "Never mind. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Winchester – may I call you Sam?" Sam nodded, and Owen went on, "I'm sure you've guessed that Amy and I weren't living together. We weren't estranged, you understand. We loved each other very much. It was just… I didn't know what she was, in the beginning, and she never told me. We were… careless. Amy didn't think that it mattered; she thought she couldn't get pregnant from… well, from a human."

Sam nodded again, encouraging the man to go on.

"When she realized she was pregnant – I can't describe how horrified she was. She'd never intended to bring a child of her own kind into the world. She didn't want to burden me with that. She told me everything. She wanted to leave, but I – I couldn't bear the idea. Monster or no monster, I loved her, and I would love our child. I told her it would be all right. We'd manage. She'd learnt to get by. She wasn't killing people. The child wouldn't kill people either. We'd live."

"But you weren't living together."

"No. When Jacob was born and Amy actually _saw_ that he… that he wasn't human, she left. She said she couldn't… She didn't want to force me to live the life of a monster. I tried to stop her, Sam – I _did_. But she insisted. She didn't cut herself out of my life completely; she stayed in touch and she made sure Jacob knew me. She knew that with what she was, there was a good chance that hunters would come after her. She wanted Jacob to have someone to turn to if that happened."

"Owen –"

"I don't blame your brother. I… I don't think I'll ever be able to be friends with him or even _like _him, but I understand. I… _freaked_… when Amy told me the truth. That might be why she felt she had to leave when she realized Jacob was… different. By then I'd realized it was stupid – panicking – because I knew Amy."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "I know what you mean. Amy wasn't human, but she wasn't a killer."

"She wasn't. And _I _knew that. Just like I know it about Jacob. My son _isn't_ a killer, Sam."

"I understand."

"And I'm trying to help him. One of my friends specializes in arcane lore. _Your _kind of lore. She found something that might help. It might make Jacob normal. I was going to do it, but when I asked around for… for the materials, I wound up drawing the attention of some hunters. They came after us, figured out what Jacob was. I've tried to explain it to them, but they won't listen to me. Jacob's never killed anyone, and I've never killed anyone for him. We're not murderers. I have a friend who works in the coroner's office."

"Which hunters are after you?" Sam asked. "Do you know their names?"

"I don't know – they use fake names. But I _do _know they're nearby. Sam, we need your help. _I _need your help to save my son."

"Jacob spoke to me. I understand – believe me, I do. I want to help you. I just need –"

"Dean. Yes. He told me you wanted to speak to your brother first. Sam, just – look, I can bring Jacob here. You don't have to leave this room. I'll have him here in ten minutes. Just _talk _to him."

"Bring – wait." Sam frowned. "Jacob said he was in Boston. How are you going to have him here in ten minutes?"

Owen stared at him in silence for a moment before he shrugged. "You got me."

Sam was already reacting, getting to his feet and grabbing the Taurus, when Owen waved his arm. Evidently that was a signal, and evidently someone was watching for it, because less than a minute later the door had burst open and men were spilling into the room.

Big men. Armed men. More men than Sam could take out on his own.

* * *

Dean blinked his eyes open, squinting in the light that poured in through the French windows. The sun was doing horrible things to his aching head.

It had been an… exciting… night. Jasmine was experienced, and she didn't expect anything more than a one-night stand. She'd promised him pancakes for breakfast. Dean planned to eat, and then they could part ways amicably. He'd noticed a fancy bakery down the street where he could probably get something for a peace-offering for Sam.

_Sam._

Dean rubbed his forehead, trying to think through the hangover. He really, _really_ hoped Sam wasn't there when he got back to the motel room. It would make it a lot easier if Sam had gone for coffee or one of his morning runs and Dean could get cleaned up and have his excuses ready before he had to face his brother.

He could hear Jasmine moving around – probably getting those pancakes ready.

He got to his feet and staggered into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he stumbled out. His head still hurt and his mouth still felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton, but he could at least see straight.

Something was nagging at him, though, and he couldn't tell what. Something was wrong – _very_ wrong. He tried to figure it out, but his brain refused to process anything beyond the desire for coffee.

All that whiskey had been a bad idea.

Jasmine was flipping the first pancake when Dean entered the kitchen. She smiled at him, although with that unnamed _something _nagging at him, it didn't seem quite as brilliant as it had yesterday.

Dean smiled politely back at her.

"Sleep well?" Jasmine asked.

"Yeah. Hey, do you have any coffee?"

"Second cabinet from the left. The percolator's there, too."

"Thanks. You want any?"

"Sure. You any good at making coffee?"

"My brother says I'm awesome." Dean grinned at her, but it was forced, and the nagging feeling was stronger than ever. He pushed it down – he'd deal with it when he could actually _think _again – and opened the cabinet. Eight different boxes of coffee stared at him from the shelf. "Huh. So you like coffee." He examined the boxes. "Javan blend? My brother would love this place."

Again the nagging feeling; again Dean pushed it down as Jasmine said, "Use the Italian roast."

"Yes, ma'am."

By the time he'd figured out the fancy percolator (seriously, Sam would _love _this place), the pancakes were done. He and Jasmine sat down to breakfast.

"You worried about something?" Jasmine asked as she passed him the syrup. "You look worried."

"Nothing, it's just… I didn't tell my brother I'd be out all night."

"You have a big brother?"

"Little brother." Dean smiled, sipping at his coffee. "He's a nagging little bitch. And he worries. And I usually call him when I'm not planning to come home, so he won't wait up for me. I… kind of forgot, last night."

Dean felt himself redden, even though it wasn't entirely a lie. He _had _been planning to let Sam know he'd be late – the kid might be a whiny brat, but Dean didn't want to make him actually _worry_, especially not with what he was dealing with already.

But Jasmine had tired him out, and he'd shut his eyes, meaning to rest a few minutes before he called Sam, and…

Yeah.

"Take him some pancakes," Jasmine offered. "I made extra. That might cheer him up."

Dean drank some more coffee.

It _was _clearing his head – and the nagging feeling, instead of going away, was stronger than ever.

But now, he could identify it.

It was his big-brother radar going off – the awful, numbing, terrifying certainty that Sam was away from him and in trouble.

Sam had been calling him.

Dean's hands tightened around his mug.

Sam _was _whiny and bitchy enough for ten people, but it wasn't like him to keep at it long after he'd realized Dean wasn't going to answer. He'd be likelier to leave Dean a snarky message telling him about the diseases he was going to catch and then sulk until Dean got him a new book.

If Sam had kept trying him that incessantly, that _desperately_, then he'd needed Dean.

He'd needed Dean. And Dean hadn't picked up the phone. Dean, after yelling at Sam, _hurting_ Sam, implying he didn't trust Sam, had walked out and not answered when Sam had called.

"Dean?" Jasmine asked. "Something wrong?"

"My phone." Dean was feeling frantically in his pockets. He had to talk to Sam. He had to hear Sam's voice. He had to know Sam was OK. Sam would be mad as hell, of course, but it didn't matter. He could deal with that. As long as Sam was OK, he could deal with anything. "Where is it?"

"I think you left it on the table in the bedroom. Do you need to make a call?"

Dean didn't bother to answer. He flung himself across the hall into the bedroom and grabbed his phone.

It was flashing.

Voicemail.

Sammy had been trying to contact him. Sammy had _needed _him.

The clawing in his gut intensified until he felt nauseated. Sammy had needed him, and he'd ignored his phone because they'd fought and he'd been worried about what his little brother might have to say about his drinking habits.

_Please be OK._ Dean's fingers were trembling as he pressed the keys to access his voicemail. _Please be OK. You can bitch at me all you want, just please be OK._

He put the phone to his ear.

_You can listen to your girly music forever. Just be OK._

"_Dean_," Sam's voice said in his ear. "_I need to talk to you, man. Call me._"

Fine. That was normal. Not a sign of trouble.

Dean went on to the next message.

"_Why the hell aren't you answering your phone, moron? I need to talk to you. It's important._"

Sam had sounded pissed, and a little worried, but not like he was in trouble. That was OK. Pissed and worried Dean could deal with.

"_Dean, what the hell? Are you planning to sulk all night? Call me!_"

A little more pissed and a lot more worried, but still not in trouble.

Still not in trouble.

"_Dean, are you freaking insane? I don't care how drunk you are, you answer your damn phone when I call you._"

A lot more pissed. And something else. Something Dean couldn't identify but that sent a tendril of fear curling through his gut.

Fingers trembling, Dean pressed the button again.

"_Dean._" Sam's voice was shaking now. "_Call me back. I just need to know you're OK. Please._"

Dean pressed the button for the last time.

"_Dean, please. Call me._"

Dean swallowed. He could brush off the first few messages as Sam being bitchy, but the last two? That had been naked pleading in Sam's voice.

Sam had needed him.

Then he glanced at the time of the last message.

11:23

Over eight hours ago.

Sam had last contacted him over eight hours ago, _begging_ Dean to call, and there'd been nothing since then. No voicemail, no missed call, no pissy text calling Dean a man-whore who hadn't used his upstairs brain since 1992.

Nothing.

The bad feeling in his gut intensified to full-blown panic.

"No," Dean breathed, hand shaking so much that it took three tries before he could press Speed Dial 1. "No, come on. You're OK, Sam. You _have _to be OK. You don't get to do this to me. Be OK."

Dean couldn't hold back a bitter laugh at the irony of the situation when the call rolled to voicemail.

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	3. Desperation

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta.

For reviewing, my gratitude to kiwimoonelmo, Kirabaros, d767468, Katy M VT, fledglingfeathers, SamWin98, Sparkiebunny, sarah, scootersmom, BranchSuper, babyreaper, Priya723, judyann, twomoms, sarah, SandyDee84, criminally charmed, nupinoop296, sammynanci, godsdaughter77, WinchesterHaunt, SPN Mum, manonairs, Jane88, Kathryn Marie Black, doyleshuny and PutMoneyInThyPurse.

Let's get straight to it…

* * *

**Chapter III: Desperation**

Dean drove like there were Hellhounds after him. He didn't bother to stop at the bakery. If Sam was OK, if Sam wasn't hurt, if Sam was ignoring his calls just because he was pissed off and wanted to be a douche and scare the crap out of Dean, Dean would kick his ass and then buy him all the jelly donuts they had in the state. And anything else he had ever wanted in his entire life _ever_.

If Sam was OK…

Dean kept one hand on the wheel and picked up his phone to try Sam again.

Again, he heard, "This is Sam. Leave a message."

"_Please_," Dean breathed, not sure who he was talking to, since they officially knew God had ditched them. "Please just let him be OK. He's all I've got left."

By the time he pulled up outside the motel, he'd worked himself into a state of total panic.

When he got a look at the motel room door, the panic intensified a hundredfold.

The door had the look – and Dean knew _all _about that look, considering how many times he'd been responsible for it – of having been kicked open and then carefully shut to hide the damage from the casual gaze.

Sure enough, when Dean touched the knob, the door swung open, hanging precariously from one hinge.

It was a full minute before he could bring himself to look up and see what was in the room. Once he'd done it, he immediately wished he hadn't.

The room was a mess. And not a Sam-got-pissed-and-threw-crap-around mess, but the kind of mess that meant there'd been a fight.

The chairs were splintered. The table tottered precariously on shaky legs, looking like a breath would make it fall. Sam's beloved laptop was on the floor, screen cracked. Their duffels had been ripped open and the contents were strewn on the beds. There were loose sheets of paper flying around the room.

Dean's blood went cold.

He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. One of the sheets of paper fluttered to his feet. He bent and picked it up, heart almost stopping when he saw what it was.

It was the flyleaf of a new copy of the _Green Eggs and Ham_, with _Merry Christmas, bitch_ inscribed in the corner. Dean had got it for Sam last Christmas as a gag gift. Sam had adored the book as a kid.

Dean had been a little bemused when Sam, eyes bright with sudden tears, had tucked it carefully into his duffel instead of flinging it at Dean's head.

Later he'd understood. It had been Sam's first Christmas back from the Cage.

Sam kept the book, hidden in his duffel where he thought Dean didn't know about it. Dean knew, and secretly plotted to get all the other books that he and their dad had read to Sam. He had a package waiting at Jodie's, ready to give Sam on his birthday.

Carefully, Dean gathered every single one of the pages of _Green Eggs and Ham_. It was something to do while his mind worked furiously – something to keep himself from going into a loop of fear and despair. Dean couldn't afford _fear_. Sam needed him.

Sam needed him, and Dean had let his little brother down enough for one lifetime.

And less than two hours ago Dean had wanted – _hoped_ – for Sam not to be there when he got back. If there was a special hell reserved for people who hurt their little brothers, Dean was going to it.

He forced down the guilt – there would be time for that, later. When he had Sam back safe, when Sam was hunched over his laptop like a geek and Dean had spent a few hours just _watching_ him, _then _he'd tell Sam he was sorry. He'd tell Sam how proud Dean was of how well he was handling all the crap he was going through.

It was when he was on his knees reaching for a sheet that had floated under Sam's bed that he saw Sam's cell phone. It was under the bed, miraculously still functional.

Dean picked it up.

He ignored the voicemail alert – a glance told him those were all his own messages, and he didn't need to hear his own increasingly frantic voice pleading for his baby brother to answer.

Oh, yeah._ Irony._

There was one text message. Dean opened it.

He didn't recognize the number, but the message sent another chill through his veins.

_We have baby brother. Call me. You have six hours until I start hurting him._

The text had come at midnight.

It was past nine.

Frantically, Dean pulled out his own cell phone and called the number. It rang just once, and then a low voice said, "Hello?"

"I'm Dean."

There was a pause. Dean could hear whispering and muttering on the other side. Then a new voice. "Dean Winchester?"

"Yes. Where's Sam?"

"Sam's in a lot of pain at the moment. You're very late, Dean Winchester."

"If you hurt him –"

"Shut up and pay attention. I'm going to let you listen to baby brother, just so you know I have him and he's still alive. Then I'm going to give you an address and you're going to be there in thirty minutes. If you're not, I'm going to start sending Sam back to you piece by piece. Do we understand each other?"

"You _son of a bitch_ –"

"_Temper_, Dean. You really don't want to piss me off." The guy raised his voice. "Hey! The older brother needs to know the kid's alive."

There was another pause, more muttering, and then a high, agonized scream that was unmistakeably _Sam_.

Dean almost threw up.

"Let him go," he growled. "Let him go, you son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing to him?"

"Exactly what I promised to do if you didn't call me by six a.m. Not my fault you were late, Dean. Of course, it's not little brother's fault either. Unfortunate that he's the one suffering for it, though."

"If you hurt him, I will kill you."

"Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, _Dean_. If only all this righteous anger had been poured out a _little_ bit earlier. You see, now it's too late. Sam's been screaming for me for _hours_." The man laughed. "He screams like a little girl, Dean. Did you know that?"

"You son of a bitch," Dean hissed. "You let him go now. _Now._ Or I swear, there's going to be nowhere you can hide where I won't hunt you down and kill you and then bring you back just so I can kill you again."

"Big words from a man who couldn't even manage to call me in time to stop me torturing his brother."

"Who the hell are you?"

"You want my name? Sure, I'll tell you. Not like you can do anything with it. My name's Owen Ford. You don't know me, but you knew my girlfriend."

"Biblically?" Dean couldn't help asking.

The man sighed. "Steve? The older brother's being a smartass. Do that thing again."

Before Dean could ask what the hell Ford meant, he heard Sam scream again, louder and longer, before he broke off into gasping sobs.

"I'm going to kill you," Dean growled. Anger was easier than anything right then. It was easier than thinking about his own failures, about what he'd shouted at Sam and how he'd ignored his calls. "Whatever you've done to him, I'm going to make sure you feel it a hundred times over."

"You have to find me first, Dean. Come to the abandoned warehouse on Fourteenth Street. You have thirty minutes."

* * *

Dean was at the rendezvous point in fifteen minutes. Somewhere there was a very angry cop filing a complaint about 'some freaking lunatic who ran three red lights and almost ran _me _over when I stepped into the street to stop him'.

Dean didn't care.

He ran to the warehouse door and kicked it open, not even checking to see if it was unlocked. Doors that stood between him and his hurting baby brother _deserved_ to be kicked open, and maybe shot a couple of times for good measure.

He was expecting an explosion of noise and sound, and possibly to have to fight his way through a gang of fuglies, so he was surprised when there was… nothing.

Not quite nothing.

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Dean saw something that made him hope and made his heart shoot up into his throat at the same time.

Sam.

Sam was in the middle of the room, tied to a chair. _Slumped _in it. It was too dark for Dean to be able to gauge the nature of his injuries, but he was pretty sure they were bad. Sam's head lolled forward, hair obscuring his face. He hadn't even reacted to Dean kicking open the door.

Dean couldn't tell if he was breathing.

"_Sam!_"

Dean was running into the room, heedless of any traps that might have been set or ambushes that might be waiting. They didn't matter; nothing mattered except getting to his brother.

Dean flung himself to his knees in front of the chair. Now that he was close, he could see how badly Sam was hurt, what those sons of bitches had done to him.

Sam's face was bruised, blood encrusting a deep gash that ran from his forehead to his jaw. Probably deep enough that it would scar a little. There was a rag stuffed into his mouth. His jacket and shirts were gone; he was wearing only his jeans and what had once been a t-shirt but was now just a collection of bloody rags held together by a few threads. The fingers of his left hand were oddly twisted. The bastards had pulled them out of joint.

That was probably how they'd made Sam scream for Dean to hear.

"Sammy?" Dean's fingers had been hovering over the bloody gash down Sam's face. He pulled out the gag and then finally dared to touch, cupping Sam's jaw and tilting his head towards Dean. "Hey, kiddo. You want to wake up for me?"

Sam stirred, eyes opening to slits. They rested briefly on Dean before sliding off.

Dean swallowed. The last time Sam had had trouble focusing his gaze had been Cold Oak.

"Hey," he said, a little more forcefully. "Look at me." Sam's eyes settled on him. "That's my boy. You're going to be OK. I'm here now. I've got you. You'll be fine."

Sam let out a sound that Dean recognized as an attempt to say his name.

"Yeah, kiddo," he said. "I'm here. Big brother's here. I'm going to take care of you."

"Actually," a new voice said, "that isn't entirely accurate, Dean. _We're _going to take care of you _both_."

Dean released Sam turned to face the muzzle of a gun. Or, to be precise, the muzzle of one of a collection of twelve guns. One was trained on him. The other eleven were trained on Sam.

Sons of bitches. They knew how to make sure Dean didn't try anything.

"Dean Winchester," the man holding a gun on Dean said. "We meet at last. I'm Owen Ford. You knew my girlfriend – _not _Biblically. No," he added as Dean tried to move for the gun he'd dropped in his headlong rush to get to Sam. "Try that and I'll have one of my boys shoot baby brother. Double-tap to the head."

"Who the hell are you and what do you want with us?"

"Who am I? I told you. You knew my girlfriend." Owen took a step closer. "You _killed _my girlfriend."

_Awesome._

"And that would be…"

"Amy," Owen said tersely. "You knew her as Amy Pond."

Dean shot a quick glance back at Sam, whose head was still drooping.

"Oh." Dean decided to deal with one problem at a time. The most pressing need was to get Sam to safety; then he could worry about how to torture the people who'd hurt him. "Well, if you knew enough to come after me, you know Sam didn't do anything to her. Hell, he didn't speak to me for a week and a half after he found out what I did. You have me, now let him go."

Owen laughed. "Really? You think it's going to be that easy? You think I want to kill you?"

"Why else –"

"You're not getting off that lightly, Dean Winchester." Owen took a step back. "The man standing right behind your brother now is Steve. Steve was the one who dislocated Sam's fingers so you could hear him. If you don't do _exactly_ as I say, Steve is going to dislocate something else. Or maybe just cut Sam's throat."

Dean waited.

"Stand up," Owen said. "_Slowly._ No sudden movements. Steve, if he makes any sudden moves, shoot the kid through the kneecaps."

Dean got up as slowly and carefully as he could.

"Good," Owen said, grinning. "Carl and Jeff are going to check you for weapons now. Let them."

Dean stood still as the man patted him down, confiscating his flask of holy water, his spare ammo, and all the knives he had concealed about his person.

"Take them inside," Owen said, "and leave them there. I'll get to them in an hour or so. I need to make some phone calls first."

* * *

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	4. Talking

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own the boys.

All the lovely people who reviewed: Katy M VT, kiwimoonelmo, nupinoop296, Priya723, Jane88, babyreaper, Fantasy's Magic, godsdaughter77, PutMoneyInThyPurse, nagla11, Kirabaros, sarah, monkeymuse, d767468, SPN Mum, doyleshuny, SamWin98, KKBELVIS, LH, Sparkiebunny, twomom, Scribble2Much, BranchSuper, judyann, SandyDee84, scootersmom, criminally charmed, brynerose, WinchesterHaunt, Leahelisabeth and sammynanci. Thank you!

Thanks to Cheryl, the voice of reason.

* * *

**Chapter IV: Talking**

Dean didn't struggle as he was dragged away. There were two men lugging Sam after him, and as long as he and his brother were being taken to the same place, he wasn't going to argue.

He was hauled down a long corridor to an open door. The men threw him inside and backed away so that the men holding Sam could get to the door. Dean scrambled to his feet, but he was too late to ease Sam from their grip, and he flinched when he heard the thud of Sam's head hitting the floor as the men dropped him.

"You want to go a little easy on him?" Dean demanded, dropping to his knees by his brother. "He's banged up enough as it is."

The men laughed, and one said, "Not like he's got much longer to suffer anyway."

Seething, but knowing that trying to escape would only lead to pissing Owen off and probably making him hurt Sam more, Dean waited until the man had shut the door and shot the bolt before he bent over his brother and patted his cheek.

"Sammy?" he said gently. "Come on, Sammy, look at me." Sam mumbled something, turning his face into Dean's palm. Dean couldn't help a little smile at that. "Come on, kiddo."

Sam's eyes opened to half-mast. Dean managed to grin at him, although the pain in Sam's face was heartbreaking.

"That's my boy. OK, kiddo, you're going to have to work with me a bit. I'm going to get you up, get you settled, and then I'm going to check how badly you're hurt. OK?"

"_Dean_," Sam mumbled.

Dean took it for the agreement it was and got to work. He went slowly – there was no way to do it without hurting Sam; there wasn't an inch of unmarked skin for Dean to put his hands on – but he wanted to spare his brother as much pain as he possibly could.

It took fifteen minutes, but in the end Dean managed to get them into a relatively comfortable position: Dean on the floor with his back to the wall, Sam securely held to him with his shoulder – the least injured part of him – resting on Dean's chest and Dean's arm slung around his waist.

"Still awake?" Dean murmured, smiling when Sam mumbled assent. "Good boy. You want to open your eyes for me?"

Sam flinched, but he opened them.

And then he flinched again, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face into Dean's collarbone.

"Hey," Dean said, running a hand through Sam's hair, simultaneously soothing him and checking for head injuries. "What's wrong?" Sam shook his head. Dean wished to God he could hold his brother closer, but Sam was hurt. "Come on, Sammy. Please talk to me."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, so softly Dean had to strain to hear it. His voice was hoarse; he must have wrecked it screaming. The thought made Dean want to cry. "I'm _trying_… Can't… help it."

"Trying what, Sammy?"

"Not to see… _him_… _Trying_, Dean… but he's _there_." A tiny sob, muffled in Dean's collar. "S-s-sorry… After th-they… started –"

"_Hey._" Dean stilled his hand, letting it rest on the back of Sam's head. "Who's there? Lucifer?"

"I'm _sorry_," Sam choked. "T-trying to… but so… so much like… the _Cage_… and –"

"_Sam_," Dean said sharply.

Sam subsided with another choked-off sob.

Dean rubbed his brother's head, remembering his own words the previous night.

_You know what's worse than being drunk, Sam? Seeing Lucifer everywhere._

Dean couldn't believe he'd said that.

_Yeah, way to go, Dean. Next time they're having the Brother of the Year Awards maybe you'll get the Lifetime Achievement for Sucking. _

Dean opened his mouth to apologize and then shut it again.

Sam was hurting, partly because Dean had hurt him, partly because Dean hadn't been there to help when those sons of bitches had come after him. He was in pain, and he was very naturally having trouble keeping his head straight, and thanks to Dean he was feeling _guilty _about it all.

_I can't trust you to have my back._

Sam always had his back. _Always._

Dean, on the other hand… He couldn't even _touch _Sam's back right then because it was covered in bloody lacerations because _Dean _had been more focused on nailing a girl than on being there for his brother. And he'd lashed out at his brother, his Sammy who'd only been trying to help him, who was so strong Dean didn't even have _words_ for it, who was dealing with the after-effects of almost two hundred years of being tortured personally by _Lucifer_ all by himself because _Dean _was too busy moping to be any good.

And Dean had made Sam feel weak.

Oh, yeah. Joke of the century, right there.

Dean rested his cheek on Sam's head. He had a lot to apologize for, and a lot to make up for, but this wasn't the time to burden Sam with Dean's guilt. He could grovel later. Right now, Sam needed him to be strong for both of them.

"It's OK, Sammy," Dean murmured. "It's OK. I know you're trying. You're doing great, kiddo. I'm so proud of you. Don't worry about Lucifer. I'm here. He can't get you while I'm here."

Then Sam started to full-on sob, tears wetting Dean's shirt. Dean held him and rocked him and whispered to him and wondered how the hell anyone could have brought themselves to hurt his baby brother.

Sam was Sam, so it didn't take him long to settle down. Then he apologized _again_, which made Dean feel even more of a heel.

"Shhh," Dean murmured, picking up Sam's injured hand. Sam flinched, but he didn't say anything as Dean carefully touched and wiggled his fingers. They _were _dislocated, and Sam's hand was too swollen for Dean to fix it. He needed to get his brother to a doctor.

Dean lowered Sam's hand to rest on his knee. "Better?" he asked after a minute. Sam nodded into his shoulder. "I'm going to shift you around a little – I need to see what else they've done to you. I'll try not to hurt you, but I have to see how bad it is."

"OK," Sam mumbled.

Dean sat Sam up and triaged him as quickly and carefully as he could.

Sam had been badly beaten, probably whipped. Dean could feel a couple of broken ribs, and the way Sam winced when he ran a light hand over his chest meant there were some bruised ones, too.

The hopeful news was that it didn't look life-threatening – the poor kid was in a lot of pain, and had lost an unhealthy amount of blood, but they'd dealt with worse. The guys had obviously been more interested in hurting him than in doing him any permanent damage. If Dean could manage to pull himself together, salvage _something_ from this utterly screwed-up day and get them _out _before any of the wounds got infected, Sam would eventually heal.

They'd be fine.

But Dean's hands were bloody now, and he didn't know if that would ever go away.

He pulled Sam back into his arms, letting his baby brother squirm until he found a bearable position. He was shivering – maybe shock, maybe the cold – but Dean didn't think it would be a good idea to give Sam one of his own shirts. They'd be too small and they might chafe the injuries.

Instead, he rubbed Sam's shoulders and upper arms, trying to get the circulation going.

Sam sighed, a little sound that made Dean smile. "You want to tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"Owen… Jacob's dad. Amy's…"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I figured. What happened to you?"

"Owen… lied."

Dean could tell Sam was having difficulty getting words out, and he hated pushing him. He had to know, though. Anything that could help him get Sam out alive, he had to know. "What did he lie about?"

"Made it sound… he was… one of… good guys."

Dean couldn't help laughing as he ran a hand over Sam's head. "Only you would believe something like that, kiddo. He came to you?"

"Yeah… Jacob first… saw him… when they… brought me… _Dean_, that poor kid…"

"Sam," Dean said. He didn't want to say something he'd regret, but right then, with Sam's blood on his shirt and Sam trembling in his arms, he couldn't summon up a lot of sympathy for Jacob. "Focus. What happened?"

"Sorry. Jacob called… a lot… Said he was… trouble… help… Said… hadn't killed… think that's true… I told him…"

"What?" Dean asked when Sam stopped talking.

"Wait… Said you'd be… back… Tried to call…"

Dean brushed damp hair off Sam's face. "I know you did, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

"Thought… you were… thought… something… happened…"

Dean blinked back traitorous tears. He knew exactly what Sam had thought. It was the same thing _he'd_ thought when he'd called Sam's number and only got his voicemail. And _Dean_ didn't have Lucifer in his head trying to make everything worse.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. It's OK. I'm here now. I'm not going to leave you… Do you know what Owen's after?"

"No," Sam mumbled. "He tried… ritual. Think… think that's… real. Ritual… for Jacob… Blood."

"He needed blood. Took your blood?" Sam nodded. "For Jacob? To make him human?"

"Mmhmm… And revenge." Sam shivered again, and Dean wrapped one arm very gently around his shoulders. "Worked… kind of."

"It worked? Jacob's human now?"

"Animal."

Dean grinned, thanking his lucky stars that he had so much experience deciphering Sam's single-word answers. "You mean Jacob can get by with animal pituitaries now?"

"Said."

"Who said? Jacob?"

"Mmhmm."

"And revenge, huh?" Dean sighed. "That was why he took you."

Sam let out a breath. "You're… not surprised…"

"Surprised? Hell, no. Are you?" Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder. "I know what I'd be doing if someone had killed you. Hell, I know what I'm going to do to Owen as soon as I've got you somewhere safe."

Sam gave a weak smile. "Knew… you'd… come."

That was almost absolution.

"Of course you did, kiddo. You're not stupid enough to think I'd let them hurt you and not do anything about it." Sam opened his mouth, but Dean shushed him. "That's enough, now, Sammy. Save your strength. Don't want you talking again unless that geek brain of yours has worked out a way we can blow this joint."

"_You _talk."

"Demanding little bitch, aren't you?" Dean relaxed his grip, still holding Sam close enough to reassure him – to reassure them _both_ – but giving him room to move if he wanted to. "OK, then. I'll talk. You know what we need, Sam? A vacation." Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean shrugged. "Hey, I'm not _you_. You want geek talk, wait till you're well enough to do it yourself. Anyway, where was I? Vacation. How does Florida sound to you?"

"Tampa?"

Sam's eye was twinkling, and Dean couldn't help an answering snicker. "Shut up. You're not supposed to be speaking right now, especially if you're going to show such a lack of respect for your elders. Anyway, dude, the beaches in Florida…"

* * *

Dean rambled, not really sure what he was talking about and not really caring. He knew what Sam needed was the sound of his voice. The words didn't really matter.

He was halfway through the story of Sam's first word ("Dean", obviously, like there was any doubt of that) when the door opened. Dean fell silent, but he didn't react beyond tightening his grip on Sam.

Four men filed into the room, all with guns trained on the semiconscious hunter in Dean's arms.

Dean felt frustration building. If they'd been pointing their guns at _him_ he would've risked it, but he wasn't going to chance getting Sam shot when he was already hurt so badly.

And the sons of bitches knew that, of course.

One of them grinned at Dean, revealing a gold tooth. "Not so cocky now, are you? Thinking that you shouldn't have been so trigger-happy?"

No, what Dean was thinking was that he was going to wipe that smug grin right off Gold Tooth's face along with teaching him Dean Winchester Rule Number One of Firearm Safety: _Do not point your freaking weapon at my brother, moron._

He forced the anger back. He needed to stay focused, he needed to stay calm and wait for his chance to get Sam out.

"What do you want?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Boss sent us with a message. He says you have two minutes to say your goodbyes to your baby brother, and then he's coming."

Right. Screw that controlling anger thing. These guys were too dumb to get it anyway.

"Listen, knucklehead," Dean snarled, "if your boss upsets Sam, or hurts Sam, or tries to kill Sam, or does anything other than come here and _grovel_, I'm going to add items to the list of ways I'm going to make him suffer. And he does _not _want that to happen."

Gold Tooth laughed. "He said you'd say that. He also said to tell you that he's not going to kill your precious little Sammy." A heartbeat, and the man added, "_You _are."

* * *

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	5. Pain

Thanks to my lovely reviewers: angeliine, kiwimoonelmo, Sparkiebunny, nagla11, Kirabaros, seaspn, Fantasy's Magic, nupinoop296, CeCe Away, BranchSuper, judyann, Kathryn Marie Black, PutMoneyInThyPurse, Alex Megan, babyreaper, FatalFramer, essebes, sarah, godsdaughter77, agent iz hyper, brynerose, SPN Mum, BlueRavenQuill, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, hotcaution, SamWin98, twomoms, d767468, Katy M VT, where the wind blows, SandyDee84, Scribble2Much, WinchesterHaunt, Jane88, BerrySPNFMA, Lucian32, doyleshuny, AlElizabeth.

My gratitude to Cheryl, for not letting me go _too _crazy here.

* * *

**Chapter V: Pain**

Dean didn't say a word when the men left, shutting the door behind them. He didn't take their advice and say his goodbyes, because _yeah right_ some two-bit thug like Owen Ford was going to do _anything_ to Sam with Dean right there.

They didn't have long to wait. In the promised two minutes, the door opened again, this time bringing Ford and about a dozen men.

A couple of the men hauled Dean to his feet. They weren't gentle, but that didn't really bother him. Then they grabbed hold of Sam and pulled him roughly up, which _did _bother him. It bothered him even more when, without even giving Sam time to find his feet, they dragged him out the door and down the passage again.

The sight of Sam's torn, bloody back as Dean was led down the passage behind him sent a fresh wave of guilt through the older hunter. If he hadn't been so stubborn and so stupid – if he'd answered his _goddamn _phone – he would've been with Sam. And Sam might be bigger (it was like the freak had never learnt that you weren't _supposed _to grow taller than your big brother) and stronger and better at ganking supernatural fuglies these days, but nobody ever had been or ever would be better than Dean at killing people who threatened Sammy Winchester.

Dean pushed down the guilt – later, he could deal with it later – and focused on how good it was going to feel to wipe that sneer off Owen Ford's face.

The men took Dean and Sam back to the main room. Half of them stayed with Dean. The other half dragged Sam to the middle of the room, _dropped _him there like he was a freaking sack of potatoes – Dean forced himself to stay calm; he could kill them later – backed away to the other side of the room and trained their guns on Sam.

Gold tooth was one of the guys pointing a gun at Sam. _Sammy_, who was on his hands and knees on the floor trying to push himself upright. When they got out, Dean was going to practice _all _Alastair's tricks on him.

"Dean," Owen said. "My men are going to let you go now. But you're not going to move. If you do – if you so much as take one step or even _think _about trying to grab a weapon – my friend Steve is going to put a bullet through your brother's brain. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," Dean growled.

"Good. Let him go, boys." The men released Dean. "Do you want to know what's going to happen next, Dean?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You're right. I am." Owen went to Sam, standing over him, back to Dean.

Dean swallowed. It was tempting – _so _tempting – but he didn't dare. Not with six guns pointing at Sam, not with his brother injured and helpless.

Owen pulled something out of his pocket. He didn't bother to turn around, but he held it up so Dean could see it. It was a knife – one of Dean's own knives.

"This is yours," he said. "My son Jacob has identified it as the knife you used to kill his mother." Owen lowered his hand slowly. "What's going to happen now, Dean, is that I'm going to put this knife on the chair. Then, when I tell you to, you're going to come here, take the knife, and kill Sam." He glanced at Dean over his shoulder. "Heart, throat, how you want to do it is up to you."

Dean's brain had stopped working when Owen had said 'kill Sam'.

"Are you out of your freaking _mind_?" he said incredulously. "I'm going to hurt Sam? Why the hell would I do that?"

"I can make you."

Dean laughed, short and sharp, without humour. "Believe me, Ford, there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_, you can do to me that'll make me hurt my brother."

_No, we hurt our brother just fine without any outside motivation at all. Hurt him a lot worse than what a knife can do._

Dean silenced the voice in his head and waited to see what Ford would do.

Ford gave Sam a vicious kick in the ribs and then turned to Dean. "So that's your last word, is it?" he asked. "Nothing I can do to you will make you hurt precious baby brother?" Dean didn't bother answering that. Ford grinned. "What about what I do to _him_?"

He walked around behind Sam and pulled him up to his knees. Sam winced.

"You see, Dean," Ford said, grabbing a handful of Sam's hair and using it to force his head up, "we're going to do this very simply. I'm going to make Sam scream. You… Well, you're going to listen. If you want me to stop hurting him, you will make a signal. Then you will come here, take the knife, and _kill him_. Until you do that, he's going to be in a great deal of pain."

For a moment it felt like the world had stopped.

"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled when his brain kicked in again. "You get your rocks off hurting innocent kids? I was the one who killed your girl. You got a problem, you deal with me. Let him _go_."

"I like this way better. You took away the most important person in my life, Dean." Owen scraped the knife against Sam's jaw, drawing a thin trickle of blood. "It's only fair for me to reciprocate. And since you seem so handy with a knife…" He paused, and then let Sam go. Sam collapsed again. "So, Dean, what's it going to be? Are you going to put Sammy out of his misery?"

"Go to hell," Dean spat.

There was no way he was doing _anything_ to Sam. Sam wasn't going to die. Dean was going to get them both out, get Sam to a doctor, and then spend the next couple of weeks – or however long it took Sam to get better – hovering like a hen with one chick. And Sam was going to have to freaking deal with it.

"As you wish." Owen nodded to one of the men. "Put big brother in that chair and secure him." He pointed at the chair they'd tied Sam to earlier. "Then get Sammy ready. Just the way we had him before."

"Don't call him Sammy," Dean snapped.

Owen looked at Dean, shrugged, and very deliberately nudged Sam's injured hand with the toe of his boot.

Sam flinched and curled in on himself.

Horrified, Dean opened his mouth to say something – apologize, offer himself instead, freaking _anything_ to get the sadistic son of a bitch away from Sammy – but Owen just laughed and backed away. "Why would I bother? I have far more interesting things planned for Sam."

* * *

Dean had no idea how long it had been. Hours, definitely. Maybe even _days_. All he knew was that first Sam had been screaming, agonized and high, and it had gone _through_ Dean like an accusation, like the sound of all his failures. Dean had wanted nothing more than for it to stop because Sam couldn't be making that noise, Sam _couldn't_ be in that much pain.

And then it had stopped and there had been broken sobbing that meant Sam was too tired even to scream.

_Oh, God._

The men had strung Sam up on Owen's orders, tying his wrists together and suspending him by his arms from one of the rafters. They hadn't pulled him too high, just high enough that, if he stretched, he could touch the ground with the balls of his feet.

It was a miserably uncomfortable position to be in, as Dean knew only too well.

Then they'd gone at Sam with – well, _anything_. Fists, belts, knives, and one guy had actually used a red-hot rod to –

Dean winced again at the memory.

That had been what had done it. The sickening smell of burning flesh had filled the air, Sam's yelling had stopped short, the first helpless sob had been wrenched from his throat, and Dean had brought up the meagre contents of his stomach.

Ford had laughed at him.

Then he'd offered Dean the knife again.

Dean had made several derogatory remarks about Ford's mother, Ford's ancestry, and Ford's ability to father children.

Ford had laughed some more and gone back to hurting Sam.

And now there was silence, because Sam was barely even conscious anymore. He _was _aware – Dean could tell that. He could see the glimmer of recognition in his brother's eyes whenever they met his.

Seeing that glimmer made Dean's heart break and gave him hope all at the same time.

Suddenly, Ford said, "Stop."

The men flanking Sam looked disappointed, but they stopped obediently.

"Twenty minutes," Ford told Dean. "Barely even that. And already baby brother is more dead than alive. Don't you think it would be kinder for you to –"

"Screw you," Dean said wearily.

Twenty minutes? It had seriously just been _twenty minutes_? The entire forty years Dean had spent in Hell had been less horrifying than Ford's freaking twenty minutes.

Ford shrugged. "Your funeral." He nodded at the men. "Let him down."

"But, boss –"

"Do it. No point now anyway. I don't think he's even feeling it anymore. Let him down and we'll start again later."

Two of the men lowered Sam to the ground. With the rope no longer supporting him, Sam sank to his knees. A third man cut the rope as soon as it was within reach, catching Sam before he could fall over.

The guy hauled Sam up in what Dean knew had to be a painful way. Dean flinched.

When another guy came to help the first one, grabbing Sam's upper arm roughly and eliciting a pained moan, Dean couldn't hold back any longer.

"Let me help him," he said, praying Ford wouldn't take it out on Sam. "He's a big kid, but I'm used to handling him. I can get him back to that stupid room." Ford looked doubtful, and Dean said impatiently, "Look, if you want to make sure I won't run, the best possible way is to give me Sam. He can barely walk. There's no way I'd be able to avoid all of you and hustle him out. And if you let your guys take him, they're only going to hurt him more. They might kill him – and you don't want that, do you?"

"No," Owen agreed. "I don't want him dead yet – not so easily. Fine, then. You can take him. Keith, untie big brother. And watch them. Keep your guns on little Sammy."

* * *

Sam had stopped being aware of anything a while ago. He could feel the pain radiating all the way down from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. It was a feeling he was used to – for a hundred and eighty years it had been so normal that he would have been surprised _not _to feel soul-searing agony whenever he moved.

The same. And different. Like Dean had said. The Cage was different. This was different.

But it hurt.

It _hurt_. And Sam didn't even understand _why_. With the Cage, he _had _understood. Lucifer had been released. Sam's pain had been the price of putting him back, the price of Dean's safety. Sam had known that. It had been a trade-off he was willing to make.

Now?

Sam knew, vaguely, that there was a reason for this. It had something to do with Amy…

Sam couldn't think. The room was swimming in and out of focus. He didn't know where he was, didn't know what was happening.

Never, not even in the Cage, had Sam felt so alone.

Then something touched his shoulder. It sparked off a fresh wave of agony. Sam flinched and tried to ride out the pain.

"Hey," a voice said gently. Sam turned towards it. He knew that voice. It was the sound of comfort and safety and big brother. "Hey. I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry. Come on, we need to get moving. You have to stand. I'll help you."

Sam didn't think he could, but when he felt Dean's arm come down around his shoulders, he tried to push himself up.

"That's it," Dean encouraged.

Then someone else was shouting something Sam couldn't hear. He heard a loud bang and felt a line of fire on his upper arm.

Dean was yelling, everyone was yelling. It made Sam's head hurt. He turned his face into Dean's arm and felt gentle fingers in his hair.

There was another bang, and then silence.

Suddenly terrified, Sam tried to reach up. His arm refused to move. He was unspeakably relieved when warm fingers closed around his wrist.

And then something happened that terrified Sam even more.

Dean yelled at him.

Sam was used to Dean yelling at him, of course – yelling was Dean's default reaction when he was feeling any strong emotion. But Dean never yelled at Sam when he was in pain. Not when he was feeling like this. Not when it hurt to _breathe_.

Sam must really have screwed up. But he couldn't imagine what he'd done.

"That's _enough_, Sam!" Dean barked at him. "We don't have time for this. Get moving." A pause, and then, "_NOW!_"

Dean tugged him up. In contrast to his words, Dean's hands were gentle, and the arm around his shoulders was strong and supporting.

Dean squeezed his arm. That was the only warning Sam had before his brother stood, pulling Sam up with him. Sam stumbled, staggered, and finally managed to get his balance. It helped that Dean was taking most of his weight.

"Freaking _salad_," Dean muttered. "Thank _God_ you don't like hamburgers."

Then they were moving. Dean kept a faster pace than Sam liked – or than Sam could comfortably manage.

By the time they stopped moving, Sam was thoroughly confused. Dean had been gentle but had hustled him along at a pace that left him exhausted. Dean had taken his weight and kept him upright whenever he stumbled but had yelled at him whenever he'd tried to stop for a moment to catch his breath.

And now they'd stopped and Dean was asking someone for water.

Then Sam heard a door shut and the unmistakeable scrape of a bolt sliding into place.

* * *

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	6. Rescue

**Disclaimer: **Nothing's mine.

For reviewing, thanks to Kirabaros, Sparkiebunny, nagla11, Alex Megan, CBloom2, nupinoop296, where the wind blows, d767468, Jane88, BranchSuper, BlueRavenQuill, sarah, SandyDee84, scootersmom, essebes, babyreaper, Jeanny, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, PutMoneyInThyPurse, criminally charmed, KKBELVIS, Kathryn Marie Black, jelpy1, judyann, snseriesfan, godsdaughter77, agent iz hyper, kellywinchester, CeCe Away, SPN Mum, kiwimoonelmo, Scribble2Much, brynerose, AlElizabeth KAZ2Y5girl, doyleshuny and WinchesterHaunt.

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help!

* * *

**Chapter VI: Rescue**

Sam was petrified.

Dean could feel the fear vibrating through his brother.

Dean had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to end the day wishing he could salt and burn himself. He would _never_ be able to resign himself to being the one who scared Sam.

They'd been _fine_. Sam had been responding to Dean's voice – slowly, because what the hell did Ford expect from a kid who'd been _tortured _to within inches of death? But he'd been _responding_. If Ford could have waited for a few freaking _minutes_, Dean would've had Sam reassured and up and moving.

But the son of a bitch had shot Sam – just a graze along his arm, thankfully, although even that was enough to make Dean fantasize about the ways in which he could kill the man. Then he'd told Dean he had exactly thirty seconds to get Sam on his feet before he got shot again.

Dean had done what he'd had to do.

Now Ford was gone, and Dean had time to walk Sam slowly to the wall, to sit them both down, and to pull Sam's head down to his shoulder.

He pulled Sam's left hand – swollen even more now, and the wrist was circled with abrasions – into his lap, and tested Sam's right arm (broken, and Dean mentally added to the list of tortures he was going to subject Ford to).

Carefully, he brushed hair off Sam's damp face.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I scared you, kiddo. It was the only way to stop them hurting you more." Sam tried to respond, but he couldn't manage more than a soft moan. Dean stroked his head soothingly. "Yeah, I know. Don't try to talk. I'll get us out."

Sam shut his eyes. A tear leaked out between his lashes. Dean wiped it away and wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Shhh… I know. I know it hurts. You were so brave, Sammy. I'm so proud of you. You know that, right? You're the bravest man I know. I'm going to get us out and get you to a doctor. I'll take care of you. You'll be fine."

Dean wasn't sure how long they stayed that way. Very soon, though the door opened. He tensed, ready to murder whoever was coming through it if they even _tried_ to take Sam away from him.

It was Jacob.

Amy's son Jacob.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam, making Sam start and look up at him. He followed Dean's gaze to the kid standing in the doorway.

Sam smiled. A tiny smile, barely visible through the blood on his face.

But he _smiled_ at the kid who was the reason for him being in this much pain.

Dean wrapped his other arm around Sam as well, daring the kid to try something.

Jacob stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "I'm not going to kill you," he announced. "I hate you, but I'm not going to kill you."

"You hate us," Dean repeated flatly.

"Not 'us'. Just _you_. Sam's my friend." Jacob scowled. "But he said he loved you and I couldn't be his friend if I hurt you."

"That crazy son of a bitch."

Jacob snorted. "I brought water." He held out a plastic bottle. "I heard them talking. Dad's friends. They weren't going to give you any."

Dean took the bottle warily. "Thanks."

He opened it, but stopped just before putting it to Sam's lips. Sam might be Jacob's friend – Sam was freaking _everybody's _friend – but Dean wasn't, and Dean wasn't willing to trust the son of someone he'd killed when his baby brother's life was on the line.

He took a swallow from the bottle.

It tasted just like water.

He waited several seconds. When nothing happened, he held the bottle to Sam's mouth.

"Slowly," he warned as he tipped it. "Don't make yourself sick."

Sam didn't drink much. A few sips, and then he turned his head away a little. Dean put the bottle down.

"Thanks," he told Jacob. "So… What are you –"

"I'll get you out," Jacob said calmly. "I hate you, but Sam was Mom's friend, and they hurt Sam. I wanted to get him out earlier but he couldn't walk and he's too big for me to carry. You can help him."

"Oh." Dean felt a little disorientated. "What about those guys?"

"Dad's friends?" Jacob sounded contemptuous. "They're not even paying attention. They think you can't get out of this room so they don't need to worry."

Dean hesitated. What if it was a trap?

But he didn't have a choice. _They_ didn't have a choice. Sam wasn't going to last through another round with Ford's men. He needed medical assistance. And Jacob was just a kid; if he even _thought _about making a move on Sam, Dean could take him down before he'd even started.

"OK," he said. "What do we do?"

"Wait here. I'll see what's going on and come back when it's safe."

The kid left, bolting the door behind him.

Dean returned his attention to _his _kid.

* * *

There were two things that could always keep Sam anchored. One was the easy vibrating thrum of the Impala's V8 engine. The other was Dean's heartbeat.

Dean knew that, of course; and although he never admitted it, Sam knew he was secretly proud that he and his baby were the most important things in Sam's life. Sam knew, also, that right then Dean was doing his best to keep himself calm so that the thumping under Sam's cheek stayed steady and even.

Sam couldn't imagine what he'd do without Dean.

He blinked back tears – Dean would think he was in pain, and he _was _but not enough to cry.

Dean saw, though, and callused fingertips swiped at Sam's cheek.

"It's OK," Dean murmured. "I'm right here and we're going to blow this joint. Just as soon as the kid comes back to tell us the coast's clear. I'm getting you to Dr. Brandon – you remember him, Sam? He was the one who set Dad's arm after that Wendigo broke it. Has a clinic just a mile away."

Sam tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come. He felt Dean's arms wrap closer around him. It _hurt_ – Dean was trying to be gentle, but there was no way he could avoid all of Sam's injuries.

Dean whispered an apology. Sam shook his head. It hurt, but he didn't want Dean to let go.

"I know, kiddo," Dean said. "I know, don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. Right here." Dean's voice was shaking. "I'm not leaving you, I promise I'm not."

Dean was upset?

Sam pushed closer to his brother.

Dean laughed a little hysterically. "No, I'm fine. Just worried about you. God, _Sammy_." His arms were warm and strong, but he sounded like he was crying. "You stay with me, Sam? You hear me? You _stay with me_."

Sam snuggled down. Where would he go?

"Yeah, well, just you remember that," Dean muttered. "You're _mine_. You don't get to check out without my permission."

Sam was startled. Dean got possessive of his big brother rights sometimes, yeah, but usually there was a trigger. He didn't start the tough talk unless he thought someone was muscling in on his position.

"Well, it's true," Dean said. "Mom said so. When she told me she was going to have a baby. I said, 'Why?' and she said, 'So we can give you a baby brother,' and I said, 'So he's _my_ baby brother,' and she said, 'Yes, sweetie, he's yours.'"

Sam thought he ought to be outraged at the idea of his family members passing him around like a FedEx package, but he really couldn't muster up the energy. Besides…

Sam breathed in the scent of gunpowder and leather.

There were worse things in the world than Dean's possessiveness. Some people didn't have big brothers to reassure them and laugh at them and set their broken arms and go all caveman now and then.

"Shut up," Dean said indulgently. "I am _so _not a caveman. You're the caveman. Have you seen the _size _of you? Freaking Neanderthal."

Sam smiled. If he was going to die…

_Was _he going to die?

He looked up at Dean, the question in his eyes. He had to know.

"Don't be stupid," Dean snapped. "Of course you're not dying, idiot. You don't get to die on my watch." Sam didn't blink. Dean sighed. "You want the truth, huh? Fine. The truth is, I don't think you're going to die. Brandon's not that far. We'll get you to him. He's good. But it's not going to help unless _you _fight, Sam. You need to hold on for me. I can't live without you, little brother."

Sam didn't really believe the last part – sure, Dean liked him (at least, Sam _thought _he did), but Dean got on just _fine _without him. It seemed like he was more a hindrance than anything, these days. Who needed a crazy brother that you couldn't trust?

"Sammy, no. _Please._ I need you. You _know _that."

Sam ducked his head. He really didn't have the energy for the argument right then.

The grip Dean had on him shifted. Earlier Dean had just been supporting Sam. Now he was practically _cradling_ him. (As much as he could, given how short Dean was.)

"You don't get it, do you, Sam?" Dean said softly. "You and my baby, you're all that's mine. Everything else I got by cheating at poker or hustling pool or perpetrating credit card fraud. But the Impala's mine. Dad gave her to me. And you… Well, Mom didgive you to me – yeah, she _did_, Sam, suck it up – but that isn't the point. You're mine because you're willing to be. I earned your trust when we were kids, and – God, I know I've been hard to live with lately. And I don't know if –" Dean broke off, breathing hard. After a moment he started again. "You are the most important thing in my life, Sammy. No exceptions. You knew that once, and I'm sorry I ever made you doubt it. I'm going to prove it to you again, no matter what it takes."

Sam relaxed. It didn't make a lot of sense, but he was tired and he was hurting, and Dean, for whatever reason, seemed willing to hold him. For now, that was enough.

"That's it, kiddo," Dean murmured. "Easy, now. I've got you. Let me take care of you. That's all you need to do, OK?"

* * *

Much to Dean's relief, Jacob showed up again very soon carrying a small sack. He glanced at Sam, who was barely holding on to consciousness, before turning his attention to Dean.

"They're gone now but they'll be back soon. I have your weapons. We have to go."

Dean nodded and tapped Sam's cheek. "Come on, Sammy. Time to get moving." Sam looked up at him, bewildered and disorientated. Dean swallowed a sigh – he didn't want to cause Sam any more distress, but there was no alternative. "We have to go, kiddo. And I can't put you over my shoulder when you're this badly hurt, so you'll have to walk. Just to the car. I'll help you. Come on."

It took far longer than Dean would have liked to get outside, even with him practically carrying Sam. And then two guys, who had apparently been left behind to guard the prisoners, tried to stop them.

One of them was Steve.

Dean felt a flicker of blind fury. This was the man who'd tortured his baby brother, who'd made him scream and sob. He'd hurt a kid who had done absolutely _nothing _to him just because Owen Ford said so. This was the man who'd almost killed Sammy. And now he was right _there_.

Dean grinned.

He lowered Sam carefully to the ground and handed him the gun. Dean wasn't going to need a gun to deal with this.

He turned to the approaching men.

Steve tried to point his gun at Sam.

Dean disarmed him, broke his arm, dislocated his shoulder, disarmed the other guy, and shattered his kneecap with a well-placed kick. He was about to shoot both of them with one of their own guns when Sam said quietly, "Dean."

Dean sighed. Right. Sam still hadn't grasped the idea that people who hurt Dean's little brother didn't actually count as _people_, making the don't-kill-humans rule invalid.

But there was no sense upsetting Sam, so Dean took a step back and eyed the men. They were both groaning on the ground.

"Here's the thing," Dean said conversationally. "_Never_ point your gun at my brother. Never dislocate my brother's fingers. Never breathe too loudly around my brother. In fact, just never come near my brother again. If I see you so much as _look_ in his direction, I will open your veins with a blunt knife and stand by and laugh while you bleed to death. Are we on the same page here?" Steve nodded frantically. "Good."

He helped Sam to his feet again.

"Get in the back," Dean told Jacob when they got to the car. "You can't stay here. If they figure out you helped us, they're going to be very pissed."

"OK," Jacob said, obeying without question. Totally unlike Sam, this kid. "But I still hate you."

Yeah, totally unlike Sam.

Sam, by this time, was struggling for breath. The brief exertion had taken everything out of him. Dean pulled him in, supporting Sam against his chest with one arm and opening the door with his free hand.

He manoeuvred Sam into the car – it was an old routine. Get Sam's ass on the seat, push his head down to keep him from banging it as he folded his body into the car, lean him against the seat back and shut the door.

Dean went around to the driver's side, got in, and tugged Sam towards him. This wasn't the Impala, and Dean knew Sam wouldn't be comfortable in some strange car when he was hurt and bleeding. Not unless he could feel Dean next to him.

Sam snuggled close.

"Girl," Dean muttered, amused. "OK, kids, time to go see Doc Brandon."

* * *

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	7. Hope

**Disclaimer:** The boys aren't mine.

A big thank you to the people who reviewed: doyleshuny, laurie31, kellywinchester, nupinoop296, godsdaughter77, bookworm324, SandyDee84, BlueRavenQuill, Fantasy's Magic, Alex Megan, BranchSuper, AlElizabeth, snseriesfan, murphy9202, judyann, babyreaper, SamWin98, criminally charmed, Gotyu, essebes, d767468, Brielle-W, reddgemini, bearberry915, Scribble2Much, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, SPN Mum, sammynanci, ThatPersonWithaFace, sarah, nagla11, twomoms, Jane88, Asylum94, Sparkiebunny, kiwimoonelmo, BerrySPNFMA, PutMoneyInThyPurse, brynerose, Kirabaros and WinchesterHaunt.

And gratitude always to Cheryl.

* * *

**Chapter VII: Hope**

Dean called the doctor as soon as he'd pulled into the street. If Sam had been coherent, Dean would have been getting a lecture about how it wasn't safe to drive, stroke his brother's head and talk on his cell phone all at the same time. But Sam wasn't aware of much. And there was no alternative anyway. Sam sure as hell couldn't drive. _Someone_ had to let the doctor know they were coming. And if anyone tried to tell Dean that he should stop running his hand through Sam's hair when it was making Sam relax, Dean would have a couple of things to say to them.

Dr. Brandon remembered Dean – he _ought_ to; Sam and Dean had done him a couple of favours over the years. He'd told Dean to bring Sam to his house, which would be more private than the clinic.

The house was a little further than the clinic, though, so it took ten minutes to get there. On the plus side, Brandon was waiting outside with a grey-haired woman in a nurse's uniform. Dean vaguely remembered her. He had a feeling her name was Betty. She'd been with Brandon for years, and she was the one who helped him when he took on _alternative_ cases.

Brandon had hopped off the porch and was opening Sam's door before Dean had even taken his foot off the brake.

"He awake?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean responded. "Sam. Hey. Say hi to the doctor."

Sam blinked and turned to face Brandon without lifting his head from Dean's shoulder. The doctor patted his cheek. "Hi, Sam. When I said you and Dean should drop by sometime, this wasn't what I meant." Sam didn't respond. Brandon glanced at Dean. "I didn't realize it was this bad. Wait here. I'll bring a stretcher out."

The doctor vanished, returning a moment later with a foldable stretcher. He set it up next to the car. Between them, he and Dean managed to get Sam onto it. They had to work quickly, with Sam as weak as he was. It meant that despite all Dean's efforts to be gentle, his little brother's face was scrunched in pain and exhaustion by the time they'd managed to get him flat on his back.

Dean felt his heart clench.

"OK, Sammy?" he asked, kneeling by the stretcher. Sam tried to smile, but he was too tired to manage more than the merest upward quirk of his lips. Dean swallowed and squeezed his shoulder. "It's OK, Sammy. I'm taking care of you."

He and Brandon got Sam inside, Nurse Betty following with Jacob.

Once Dean had helped the doctor get Sam situated on the table, Betty indicated that he should leave. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Brandon shook his head. "You need rest, Dean."

"I'm _plenty_ rested. Last night while Sam was being tortured by evil sons of bitches, I was making whoopee with a hot girl called Jasmine and then _sleeping _it off. I don't need –"

"I don't just mean sleep, although I'm sure you need that too. You've spent the last few hours watching Sam in pain. Unless you're very different from the Dean Winchester I used to know, that would've been just as hard on you as it was on Sam."

Dean ignored the implied question – he didn't know if he qualified for awesome big brother anymore. He didn't know if he qualified for _anything_; what award did you get for getting it on with a random girl while the baby who'd been given into your care was suffering horrifically at the hands of some guy who had a grudge against _you_?

"Sam needs me," he said.

Brandon shook his head. "I'm going to put Sam under now. He's not going to know a thing for the next few hours. But he _will_ need you when he's awake and you need to be ready then." Dean stubbornly stood his ground. After a moment, the doctor shrugged. "Fine. I'll make a deal with you. You can sit with Sam while Betty's prepping things. I'm starting the IV now, but I'll take it slow and he's a big kid – it'll take him a couple of minutes to go under. You sit with him until then, then you go to the kitchen and get yourself something to eat. Maybe take a shower, too."

"I don't need a shower."

"You're covered in blood. _Sam's _blood. You can borrow a clean shirt from my dresser."

_Sam's blood._

Suddenly Dean couldn't wait to get under water. _Hot _water.

"He'll be OK, right?" he asked, needing reassurance. "You can fix him." The doctor hesitated, and Dean stammered, "N-no. No, you don't get to – you can't – don't _look _like that. You can fix him, right?"

"Dean." Brandon put a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know. I don't even know the full extent of his injuries yet, or how big a problem blood loss is going to be."

"We're the same blood group –"

"It's not about supplies, Dean. I have everything I need. That doesn't mean – look, I'm not saying Sam's going to die. I'm just saying I need to see what we're dealing with. And you need to calm down. Give us some time. And trust Sam. From everything I know of him, he's a strong kid."

Dean nodded.

Then he went and sat by Sam. Sam squinted up at him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, speaking with difficulty around the tightness in his throat. "Got you out, just like I promised. Now Doc Brandon's going to patch you up. Just like I promised. Be as good as new, Sam."

"_Dnnn_."

Other than when he'd intervened to stop Dean killing Steve, it was Sam's first attempt at speaking since Owen's little fun-and-games hour (twenty minutes, yeah right, Dean would give them _twenty minutes_). Dean smiled at him encouragingly. "See, you're better already. That's my boy. Going to be back hunting before you know it."

Sam smiled back. Dean found his fears melting away; he was remarkably content just to sit on the edge of the bed, letting Sam draw as much comfort from his presence as he could, while the drugs did their work.

* * *

An hour later, Dean was sitting in Brandon's living room with Jacob. Dean had showered, the water as hot as he could take, scrubbing himself until every inch of his skin was raw and tender. He still felt like he wasn't clean.

His stained clothes were in a trash bag. He was going to burn them at the next opportunity. It had been one of his favourite shirts but there was no way he was ever going to wear it again, not something that had been soaked in Sam's blood.

_Sam's blood._

Dean swallowed bile.

He was alone now – Jacob was there, and Betty had checked in a couple of times, but _Sam_ wasn't there so as far as Dean was concerned he was alone – and his guilt had coalesced into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach.

He didn't even remember everything he'd yelled at Sam. That he didn't want Sam's help. That Sam was crazy. That Sam was a _liability_.

Dean choked back a sob.

Sure, it had been easy to yell at Sam. Sam hardly ever yelled back – well, he did at other people, but not at Dean. Sam let Dean work off his temper and understood and responded with a smile of absolution when Dean brought him his apology-latte.

But that wasn't surprising. Sam knew he was Dean's world and Dean's flashes of temper were just that, temper.

Sam _had _to know that.

Dean was beginning to feel a cold, horribly familiar dread.

He'd spent the last few weeks angsting over what he was fighting for, but he'd never stopped to think about what _Sam _was fighting for. He'd assumed that Sam fought because – well, because that was what Sam _did_. Other people gave up and backed down and decided it was too much to take, but not Sam Winchester. Not _Sammy_. Sammy could take anything.

Deep down, Dean knew he had always believed that.

Sammy was strong. That had been most of the reason he'd rebelled against the hunting life so much. Dean and their father had called it Sam's weakness, but that might have been only to hide their own fear. It was so much easier _not _to ask questions.

Sam asked questions. He asked questions and he waited for the answers. And Sam could handle the truth. He was one of the few people Dean knew who could handle any truth. Sure, something might beat him down a little. He might be temporarily shocked, or broody, or reckless. But in the end, Sam overcame everything. Sam dealt. Sam _fought_.

Sam was _Sam_.

Dean hadn't been giving Sam much reason to fight lately.

He hadn't even asked Sam if he needed _help_. You know, with the horrors that two hundred years of hell had to be unleashing in his brain. No, _he'd_ been whining so much that _Sam _had tried to help _him_, and had gotten yelled at for his pains. And had everything he'd suffered to save the world thrown in his face. Again.

What if Sam didn't think life with Dean was worth fighting for anymore?

After the wall had fallen, Sam had come back for him – he'd told Dean that much. What if he didn't want to this time?

What if –

What if Dean had to face tomorrow, a whole lot of tomorrows, without his brother, his best friend?

* * *

Two hours, and Brandon had _finally_ emerged. His surgical gloves were still bloody.

God, _Sammy_.

"Doc?" Dean didn't even bother to _try _to keep the tremor from his voice. "Please tell me it's good news."

Brandon's expression was unreadable. "He's alive," he said. "He came through surgery without any major complications. Not – I won't lie to you, Dean. He's going to need a lot of care. But he's alive."

"He's alive," Dean breathed gratefully. "That's a good sign. So you'll help him, right, doc? You'll save him for me?"

"He's alive, Dean. He's conscious. Groggy, but awake. He's a pretty determined kid. I think he'll eventually be OK." Dean felt dizzy with thankfulness. "He's asking for you – no, wait. We need to talk before you see him." Dean waited. "You boys been arguing lately?"

Dean flushed a guilty scarlet. "I – yeah, more than usual. Is he upset?"

Brandon sighed. "I understand, Dean. Really. You're brothers. It would be strange if you didn't have the occasional fight. Or fights." He shrugged. "I'm not trying to overstep my bounds, Dean, but right now Sam's in my care and I need to think of what's best for him."

"What did he say?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"He asked me if he could stay here so you wouldn't have the trouble of taking care of him while he recovers."

Dean's world was falling out from under him.

How could Sam even _think _–

Oh, but he knew the answer to that. Sam could _think_ because Dean freaking _made _him _think_ by throwing cruel words at him when Sam, Sammy who was dealing with freaking _Lucifer_ all by _himself_, had only been trying to help.

"Let me talk to him," Dean said.

"Dean –"

"_Please._"

Brandon sighed. "Fine. Just don't upset him, OK? Whatever's going on between you two, the kid needs to rest."

Dean would have felt better if Brandon had shot him.

* * *

Sam looked up when Dean entered the room. Brandon followed.

"I'll leave you alone in a minute," the doctor said, indicating that Dean should sit. Dean perched himself on the edge of the bed, resting one hand on Sam's bandaged chest, and faced the doctor. "I need to explain a few things, though, and it's easiest to tell both of you together."

Dean nodded. "We're listening."

"Uh-huh. Sam, whoever did that to you was clearly trying _not _to kill you."

"Yeah," Dean said. "They just wanted him to _suffer_. Sons of bitches."

The doctor smiled. "Just as well, because without that kind of caution, the kind of abuse you suffered could well have resulted in a fatal injury. I'm not going to sugar-coat things, Sam. It's serious, but it could've been far worse." Brandon glanced at his notes. "Details first. Right arm broken in two places, fingers of left hand dislocated, clean break in two ribs and hairline fracture in one – you're lucky they didn't shatter the bones, Sam – severe lacerations and numerous minor injuries, some infected. Minor burns. Massive blood loss. Beginning symptoms of dehydration. Some blunt-force trauma to your head."

Dean slid closer to Sam.

"The good news," Brandon said, "is that none of that should be fatal. I'm putting you on antibiotics to take care of the infections." He crossed his arms. "The _bad _news is that whoever did this to you _did _intend to cause damage. This isn't going to get better overnight. It'll take a few weeks, you'll be in some pain, and you'll need to follow orders."

"I understand," Sam said raspily. "Thanks, doc."

"Sam." Brandon warned Dean with a glance to stay quiet. "I want to keep you here until tomorrow morning. Then you can decide what you want to do. You can leave with Dean, in which case Dean and I are going to have a long talk about your recovery process. Or you can go to the clinic as an inpatient. I'll have a word with them; I've sent hunters to them before. They won't ask any uncomfortable questions." Brandon patted Sam's shoulder. "You think about it and let me know what you decide, OK?"

The doctor left.

For a moment, Dean just sat there, watching the rise and fall of Sam's chest under his fingers. Then he said softly, "How're you feeling, Sammy?"

"Dean, I –"

"Sammy."

"I'm OK."

"Uh-huh." Dean settled himself more comfortably on the bed. "How about we go again, and this time you tell me the _truth_. How are you?" Nothing. "_Sam?_"

"Hurts," Sam admitted finally.

Dean let out a breath. At least Sam was talking to him. "Sorry to hear that, kiddo. Doc give you anything for the pain?"

"Yeah. Just took the edge off."

"OK." Dean surveyed Sam. His brother had a nice, clean white cast on his right arm. His left hand rested on the bed at his side. It looked like Brandon had popped the bones back in place, but Sam wasn't moving it. Probably hurt like a bitch. The covers were pulled up to Sam's waist. Above them, the kid's chest was swathed in bandages. There were butterfly bandages over the gash down his face. The bruising on his face and arms was stark against the white bedclothes. "You're a mess." He rubbed Sam's chest. "But we'll take care of it."

"Mm-hmm."

Dean's heart filled as he looked down at the kid who was gazing at him with a mixture of trepidation and faith.

There were issues to be dealt with. But that was for later. Right now, he just had one point to make.

"Sam?"

"Hmmm?"

"You're _mine_."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	8. Truth

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **So here's the deal: the multi-chapter fic meant to go up after this one is already written. But because I have exams coming up, I won't be able to post it for a couple of weeks. _But _because I'm compulsively evil (like you guys didn't know that) I might just drop a teaser to it along with the epilogue to this story.

For reviewing, thanks to CeCe Away, Sparkiebunny, detroiter stranded in tucson, Kirabaros, nagla11, brynerose, SPN Mum, sarah, kiwimoonelmo, nupinoop296, reddgemini, SandyDee84, BranchSuper, doyleshuny, murphy9202, d767468, twomoms, scootersmom, AlElizabeth, judyann, bearberry915, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, godsdaughter77, Ginnylove9990, laurie31, Jane88, PutMoneyInThyPurse, kellywinchester, WinchesterHaunt, babyreaper, BlueRavenQuill, bookworm324 and where the wind blows.

Thanks, as always, to Cheryl.

* * *

**Chapter VIII: Truth**

Sam stared up at Dean uncertainly. He had been too out of it earlier to notice much. Now, with drugs dulling the worst of the pain, he _was _capable of thinking.

And what he was thinking was that, despite the fierce protectiveness of the words, he'd never heard Dean sound that vulnerable – that _scared_ – before.

"Dean?" he asked quietly. He was feeling better, but raising his voice was still beyond him.

Fortunately, Dean responded. "I'll take care of you," he said quietly. "Whatever you need, I'll get it. Whatever Doc Brandon says, I'll do it. You _know_ I will, Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean, but –"

"Then what the hell was that crap about staying in the clinic?"

"Dean –"

"What, you think I'm going to leave you on your own, when you're hurt and you can't defend yourself, and have a night on the town while something fugly comes after you?" Dean paused, thought, and added, "_Especially_ considering what happened last time I tried that? Is _that _how irresponsible you think I am?"

"_Dean_," Sam pleaded. He was tired, and Dean was making his head pound.

Dean deflated. "God, I'm sorry, kiddo. There I go upsetting you again." His hand rubbed Sam's chest in a soothing motion. "I'm sorry. Just… I won't make you do anything you don't want to, but please let me take care of you, Sam. I know I dropped the ball, and we're going to be talking about that. _When_ you're feeling better. For now… please."

"Dean –"

"Just tell me what I have to do to make you trust me again. Anything, Sammy. Whatever it takes." Did Dean _really_ not get it? "Sammy?" Dean asked, pleading now, actually _pleading_, and Sam sighed. He really didn't want to get into it; he was way too tired. Staying in the clinic until he was feeling better would make it easier on both of them. But Dean was begging, and what was Sam supposed to do? "Sammy, _please_."

"You said it yourself, Dean," Sam said quietly. "I'm crazy. You don't want to deal with that. It'll be –"

"_Sam._" Sam shut up. "Crap. I guess we _are _having this conversation now." Dean slid his hand to rest over Sam's heart. "You know I don't mean half the crap I say when I'm upset, Sammy. I'm not saying that excuses it, but… I didn't mean it. I admire the way you've been handling everything, and… I'm proud of you and everything you've done. And I know it's tiring and you're exhausted and half the time you're only fighting for my sake." Dean slid his other hand over to join his first. "You think I don't notice, Sam? Or that I don't appreciate it? Kiddo, I _know_ I've got the first prize when it comes to little brothers. I can't live without you, Sammy."

"Yeah, you can," Sam said.

"No, I can't." Dean rubbed gently over the bandages on Sam's chest. "I tried. It sucked and I hated every minute of it and if I hadn't made a _promise_ to you I would've offed myself. I am _never _trying that again."

Before he could say anything else, the door opened.

* * *

Jacob came in.

Dean's hand stilled, but he kept it on Sam's chest as he looked up at the kid.

He really _should_ trust Jacob. Amy's son had given up what had to be a strong desire for revenge, abandoned the only family he had left, and taken off with a man he hated, just to help Sam.

But Sam was helpless, and the only person Dean trusted was himself.

"Hey," Dean said lightly. No need to antagonize Jacob unnecessarily. "You get any sleep?"

Jacob didn't spare Dean a glance. "You don't trust me," he said, making his way to the bed, eyes on Sam but speaking to Dean. "It doesn't matter. You're scared I'll hurt Sam to get back at you. That was what Dad was going to do."

Jacob sat on the edge of the bed.

That was _it_. It was one thing to trust the kid, and Dean wasn't even sure he could do _that. _It was another thing altogether to let the son of a woman Dean had killed sit _unsupervised _within inches of an injured Sammy.

Dean opened his mouth. Sam forestalled him. "It's OK, Dean. He's not going to hurt me."

Jacob _finally_ looked at Dean. "I'm not. Sam helped me this morning. Well, last night, really."

"How?" Dean asked weakly. Sam had spent the last several hours being tortured. _When_ had he had time to help Jacob? And help him with _what_?

"About Mom." Jacob hesitated. "I knew what Dad was planning when I called Sam. I did it because I hate you and Dad said hurting Sam would hurt you." Dean stiffened in anger, but a look from Sam kept him quiet. "Dad let me talk to Sam alone after they brought him in. They had him tied up, of course."

Dean waited.

"I asked Sam if he'd told you where to find Mom. He said no. He said if he'd known you were going to do it, he would have tried to talk you out of it. And then he said it didn't matter, because he would always stand by you no matter what you did." Jacob _finally _looked at Dean. "And then he spoke to me about Mom."

"Yeah?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"Yeah. I told him… Mom didn't like Dad. That was why we didn't live with him. It wasn't because of me. She told me he wasn't a good man. He killed people. For money, not because he's like us. And then… Sam told me what he knew about her. Mom. She was a good person and she saved Sam's life and she was Sam's friend. And then…" Jacob shrugged. "We talked."

Yup. Trust Sam.

Dean rubbed Sam's head. "You talked."

"Yes. Until they came to take Sam away." Jacob looked back at Sam. "They hurt you. I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," Sam said softly. "Don't worry about it."

"You should be careful. Dad might come after you again… Not right away, I think. He likes to plan. He planned for _months_ before doing this. But he will."

"We'll be ready for him," Dean promised. "He won't catch us by surprise again."

Then he hesitated, thinking. After what he'd heard – Jacob had _known_ his father would go after Sam – what he was about to say went against every instinct he had.

Well, _almost_ every instinct. There was always the instinct to make Sam proud of him, and that was something he hoped this would do.

"Jacob." Jacob nodded acknowledgement without looking up. Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair, trying to calm himself as much as his brother. "You got us out. And that probably saved Sammy's life. Thank you."

Dean risked a glance at Sam. Sam was smiling at him, making his heart lift.

"Do you have any family other than your Dad?" Dean asked.

"Mom has friends… Not… Not like us. But they know about us."

"Can they help you? Get you animal pituitaries or whatever?"

"One of them is a butcher."

"Um." Dean tried to get that picture out of his head. "OK. Do you know where they live?"

"New Jersey."

"OK. Then once Sam's better, we'll take you to them. It's not far from here. They'll take care of you, right?"

Jacob nodded. Then he said, "I want to go now."

"I get that, but I can't –"

"You don't have to leave Sam. You don't have to take me all the way. Just somewhere I can get a bus." Jacob hesitated and added, "You probably shouldn't meet them anyway. You're hunters."

"You said they're not like you." Jacob just looked at him, and Dean understood. Not kitsune, but something else. "Oh. Are they killing people?"

"You would've heard about it."

"Fair enough. Tell they to make sure I don't hear about them killing anyone and we'll be good. Will you be OK by yourself for an hour or so, kid?"

Jacob started to answer; then, realizing Dean hadn't been speaking to him, he fell silent.

Sam smiled. "I'll be fine. Just…"

"What?"

"Come straight back."

Dean's breath caught. "I promise," he said. "I will be back before you even realize I'm gone."

* * *

"You really do care about Sam," Jacob said.

Dean shrugged, meeting his eyes in the mirror. What, that was still a freaking _surprise_ to people?

"He's Sam."

"I didn't think you cared about anyone."

Dean laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, my life would be a lot easier if I didn't." Then he hastily added, "Except for Sam. I wouldn't give up anything about Sam."

"You fought, didn't you? Before Dad took Sam. He was upset."

"Your dad?"

"No. Sam. I think he thought you might not come for him. Don't look at _me _like that. I'm just telling you what I saw. Anyway, it was Dad's fault too. Dad kept telling him you weren't coming."

"Jacob." Dean hesitated. "Look, I'm sorry about your mom. I'm not – I did what I had to do. If I hadn't killed her, Sam would've had to eventually, and that would have killed _him_. Maybe even worse than Madison."

"Madison?"

"She was a werewolf. Sam liked her, _really_ liked her, but… Well, she wasn't in control. She _asked _him to shoot her." Dean glanced at Jacob. "Sam and your Mom were friends. I didn't want him to have to do it himself."

"So you did."

"I'm sorry. I can't say if I could do it again I would do it any differently, because I wouldn't, but I'm sorry it had to be that way."

"OK." It wasn't forgiveness, but it was acceptance. Dean could live with that. He had killed the kid's mother, after all, and Jacob wasn't Sam. He wasn't an adoring little brother ready to forgive Dean anything if Dean just put it to him right. "I – I can't – I still hate you. But I promised Sam. I won't kill you."

"Thanks."

"You don't even know what it was like."

"My mom's dead, too."

"Sam told me. That's different. You still have Sam. Do you know what it's like when there's just one person in the world you trust, just one person who will always love you no matter what, and they die?"

Dean thought of kneeling in the mud watching the light fade from Sam's eyes, of seeing the ground close over an endlessly deep black hole, of hearing Cas say that Sam's soul was still in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer.

He thought of life without Sammy.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Dean pulled up outside the bus station. "Well, we're here. Where are you planning to go?"

"I can get my own ticket –"

"You try to buy a one-way ticket to New Jersey, they'll lock you in a room and call CPS. Tell me what you want."

Jacob considered briefly and then nodded. "OK. New York City. I'll ask them to meet me there."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes. I'll call them after you've bought the ticket."

Ten minutes later, Dean was saying goodbye to Jacob, feeling a pang that surprised him. He wasn't going to miss the kid, but…

But.

Dean walked Jacob on to the bus, asked the conductor to keep an eye on him ("My cousin's son, he stayed over for the weekend, I was going to take him back myself but one of the ER surgeons at the hospital fell sick so I'm on call this weekend"), and nodded a final farewell.

"You take care of yourself."

"Yes." Jacob eyed him with those unnervingly grown-up eyes. "And you take care of Sam."

Dean grinned. At least about this thing, he and Jacob were on the same page. "I can promise to do that."

"Good." Jacob looked at Dean. "I know you said you were sorry. I still hate you."

"So you said."

"I lost her. And you still have Sam." Jacob shrugged. "Maybe I was just born unlucky. Monsters are."

* * *

Sam blinked back tears of pain. The drugs were wearing off, and he didn't want another shot – he didn't like how zoned out they made him feel. But without their soothing effect, he could feel every welt and laceration, every bruise, every cut.

And, to make matters worse, they were trying to sit him up.

He had to admit that was his own fault. He'd flatly refused another IV, so that meant he had to eat. And _that_ meant he had to sit up. Even if it hurt.

"Easy, Sam," Betty said softly. "Come on, I just need you to ride it out. Just a minute. Then I'll sit you up and you'll feel better. Trust me." She raised her voice. "Doctor?"

Sam felt a hand on his arm. "I'm going to help her, Sam. You're too big for Betty to support your weight on her own. Hold on, OK?"

Sam tried. He _really_ did. He _knew_ Brandon and the nurse meant well, and he didn't want to make it any harder for them. But he _hurt_, his entire body felt like it was on fire –

God, no, not fire, not _fire_, this wasn't that, not the Cage.

Sam gritted his teeth as the doctor and the nurse pulled him partway up. Brandon held him in place while Betty piled some pillows behind his back, and that just made it _worse_. Now he hurt _and _he was in an uncomfortable position.

"Hey." Sam hadn't heard the door open, but when he heard that voice he nearly cried in relief. Everything was going to be OK. Dean had come back. "What's going on?"

"Sam needs to eat," Betty explained. "We were trying to sit him up."

"You're doing it wrong."

And then Dean was there, and Brandon was standing aside to give him space, and Sam was so grateful he would have hugged his brother if he could've moved either of his arms.

"I know," Dean murmured, reaching down to wrap his arms around Sam. "I know. I've got you. C'mon."

Sam wasn't quite sure what happened, but one moment he was slumping back to the bed, burying his face in Dean's shoulder, and the next he was mostly sitting up, leaning back against Dean's chest.

It was finally over, and he was finally home.

Sam sighed and let himself sink into Dean's reassuring arms.

* * *

For a moment, Dean just relaxed and let himself feel the relief of Sam alive and breathing.

Sammy.

Safe.

That was all that mattered.

"Still hurt?" Dean asked.

"Better now," Sam mumbled.

"Oh, it is, huh?" Dean couldn't help laughing. "You're a girl, you know that?" Sam stiffened, and he squeezed lightly. "OK, princess, I got you."

"He needs to eat," Betty interjected cautiously. "I brought him this."

She held up a bowl of green jello. Sam made a tiny noise of dissatisfaction. Dean smacked him – carefully – on the arm. "None of that. You want to get out of here, you get something inside you. I'm not hauling your heavy ass around if you fall over from starvation." Then it struck him that Sam might be too out of it to get jokes, and he said, more gently, "C'mon, Sammy."

Sam still hesitated, and Dean _finally_ got it. He couldn't use his hands and he didn't want Betty to feed him.

Dean rolled his eyes and held out his hand for the bowl. Betty gave it to him.

"Thanks," Dean said. "Could you guys leave us alone for a bit?"

* * *

By the time Brandon came back in fifteen minutes later, the bowl was empty. Sam had curled up on his left side – the only really comfortable position he could find, since his back and right arm were injured – with his left hand on a pillow he couldn't roll over onto it. There were more pillows at his back holding him in place.

He was practically asleep, and if Dean had anything to say about it, he would be all the way asleep soon.

Brandon smiled at both of them and pulled up a chair next to the bed.

"How're you feeling, Sam?"

Sam raised his head a little. "Doc. Better. Thanks."

Brandon turned to Dean. "Is he feeling better?"

Sam looked outraged. Dean grinned, rubbed his head soothingly, and said, "He's still in a lot of pain. But I think he's more comfortable."

"Hmmm." Brandon sat back. "Sam? You awake enough to answer a question for me?"

Sam nodded, although he didn't try to sit up. It was a sign of how much pain he really _was_ in, and Dean squeezed his shoulder.

"OK," Brandon said. "Have you figured out what you want to do? Leave with Dean or go to the clinic? Because if you want to go to the clinic, I need to call ahead so they'll be ready for you."

Dean forced himself not to react, just keeping up the gentle soothing motion of his hand in Sam's hair.

Sam said nothing for a minute, and it was one of the longest minutes of Dean's life.

Sam turned his head enough to look up at Dean. "Can I –"

"Don't even _think _about finishing that sentence," Dean growled. "You can do anything you want to, Sammy."

"_Dean._" Sam held his eyes a moment longer before turning to the doctor. "I'll go with Dean."

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	9. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the boys.

**Author's Note: **So… This is the last post from me until after exams. I hope you enjoyed this story and I hope you'll still be around when it's time for the next one. *g*

For reviewing Chapter 8, thanks to BranchSuper, essebes, Sparkiebunny, nupinoop296, SPN Mum, kiwimoonelmo, godsdaughter77, KrialovesSPN, Ginnylove9990, criminally charmed, doyleshuny, sarah, CeCe Away, babyreaper, reddgemini, SamWin98, jafreckleslover, snseriesfan, d767468, brynerose, anon, bookworm324, murphy9209, twomoms, SandyDee84, Kathryn Marie Black, BlueRavenQuill, judyann, KKBELVIS, sammynanci, sandycub, Jane88, anon, Kirabaros, AlElizabeth, fixusi and where the wind blows.

Thanks to Cheryl for general help. :-)

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Stay," Dean said firmly. "You know the rules." Sam scowled. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't open the door _anyway_ because your right arm's in a cast and your left hand is still too swollen for you to get any kind of grip on the handle. Just stay put for two minutes while I go book us a room and then I'll come back for you."

Dean booked them a room, two singles, _honestly_, why the hell did people insist on asking stupid questions and wasting his time when his injured little brother was waiting for him?

He booked, he paid, and he went back to Sam.

He grabbed their duffels from the trunk first, because no way was he leaving Sam alone in their motel room to come back and get stuff. He didn't think he'd be leaving Sam alone in any motel room for a _long_ time.

"Got us the farthest one from the street," he said, opening Sam's door. "No noise to disturb my princess."

"_Dean._"

"_Sam._"

Dean ignored the bitchface and helped his brother to his feet. It took a moment for both of them to find their balance, and about five minutes to navigate the twenty feet to the motel room door. Dean held Sam against him with one arm, fumbled for the keys with the other, and miraculously managed to get himself, Sam, the bags and the first-aid kit into the room.

It was a nicer room than usual. Sam was recovering, and Dean was damned if he'd let his baby brother recover in a place where the fungus on the walls would just make him sick again. He'd sprung for an upscale motel with crisp white sheets on the beds and air conditioning that worked and didn't sound like a dying banshee.

After he'd got Sam comfortable and persuaded him to drink some juice, he sat on the bed next to his brother and said, "Get some rest, Samantha. You've had a busy day."

Sam smiled. "I'm glad you and Jacob made friends."

"I wouldn't call it _friends_," Dean said, snorting. "He's just not trying to kill me anymore. And that's got nothing to do with him suddenly realizing the awesomeness that is Dean Winchester. He just doesn't want you mad at him." Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean said, "No, I mean it. Have you seen the _size _of you lately? No wonder even monsters are scared."

"Sure," Sam muttered.

Dean ran a hand through his brother's hair. "Sammy, I'm sorry. I don't think you're a liability." He paused, hand resting on Sam's head, before adding, "Actually, I think you're awesome. I'm proud of you, kiddo. Proud of the kid you were and proud of the man you've become."

Sam smile was almost shy. "You raised me."

"See? More proof that I'm awesome." Dean scooted closer. "So you and Jacob _did _make friends, huh?"

"He just misses his mom, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. But if he'd hurt you…"

"What?" Sam asked, exasperated. "You'd hunt down a kid?"

"I don't know. All I know is I can't think straight when…" He trailed off. "Just… God, we have to make sure this doesn't happen again, Sammy. I'm _never _leaving your calls unanswered again. I was going crazy. I can't – you're all I have left. Been that way for a while now."

"Yeah, I get it."

"What about Ford?" Dean asked abruptly. "You get any intel on him? How we track him down, to begin with."

"Dean –"

"Because I have a score to settle with that son of a bitch."

"Dean –"

"Hasn't been so long that I've forgotten what Alastair taught me –"

"Dean –"

"Evil bastard hurt my _brother_. You know what I do to people who hurt my little –"

"_Dean!_" Sam snapped. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Dude, what? He hurt you. I kill him. It's basic cause and effect. What's ridiculous about that?"

"He's human, Dean. We don't kill humans."

"He's not human. He's the evil son of a bitch who hurt you."

"Dean –"

"_No_, Sam!" Dean growled. "You don't get to tell me to back down. I – you didn't – I drove us from their hideout to Brandon's house and you were barely conscious and you were bleeding and I was _covered_ in your _blood_. I thought you were going to _die _and I thought it would be _my _fault. Don't you tell me I have to play nice with the guy who hurt you."

Sam sighed. "Fine. Just… Not now."

"_Now? _Don't be stupid. Of course I'm not going _now_. You think I'm leaving you here? Later. When you're better and we're about to leave this town. And I'm not really going to _kill_ him, although I want to and he deserves it. Just put enough healthy fear of Dean Winchester into him that he won't ever think about coming after you again. And, you know, maybe make sure he's not physically capable of doing it, either."

"Dean." Sam patted Dean's arm. "It's OK. Calm down. You got me out. I'm going to be fine."

"And what about us?" Dean asked hoarsely. He knew he was harping, but he needed to know. He needed to hear Sam say it. "Are you still mad at me about… anything?"

Sam shot him a look of fond exasperation. "You shouldn't have done it. And I think you know that now. So it's OK. We're going to be fine."

"Uh-huh." Dean reached out to pat Sam's head.

Sam scowled. "Dude, I'm not a dog."

"Of course you're not," Dean said. "You're a puppy. Just like all those fangirls keep saying. Ask your ex-wife, I'm sure she'd agree with me."

"She's not my ex-wife. We had the marriage annulled."

"So that makes her your ex-wife."

"No, a _divorce_ would make her my ex-wife. An annulment is like a do-over."

"Seriously? You get do-overs?" Dean patted Sam's head again, laughing when Sam glared at him. "Got something for you, Fido. Well, actually, it's kind of already yours, but…" Dean opened his duffel, pulled out a parcel clumsily wrapped in newspaper and duct tape, and handed it to Sam. "I didn't have a lot of time."

Sam looked from Dean to the package to his bandaged hands.

"You'll have to open it," he said at last.

"Oh!" Dean flushed. "Yeah, of course. Sorry." He moved, sitting next to Sam so their shoulders were bumping. "Here you go."

He ripped the paper off, _carefully_.

Inside was a glue stick, a roll of tape, a pair of scissors, and something that looked like a sheaf of paper wrapped in plastic.

"I didn't want anything to get on the paper," Dean explained, dropping the rest of the stuff into his lap and unwinding the plastic. "I – I'm sorry, I would've done it for you myself, but I really suck at this, and I didn't have time anyway. So I figured… You know… Maybe you could tell me how."

Dean pulled out the papers and held them out so Sam could see.

Sam stared so long Dean was afraid he was upset.

"Sammy?"

"You…" Sam sounded choked up. _Girl. _"My book. _Green Eggs and Ham. _They… they ripped it when they came for me."

"I know. I got all the pages – I made sure of that. So now I can put it back together for you. If you want me to. I mean, it won't be the same. So if you want I can just get you a new copy. There's a bookstore –"

"No," Sam interrupted softly. "Put this one back together."

Dean looked at Sam. "Yeah?"

Sam smiled and nodded. "Yeah."

Ten minutes later, Dean was gluing and taping, while Sam, wrapped in a blanket and drowsing against his side, alternated between puppy-dogging the hell out of Dean (like Dean was in any mood to refuse him _anything _right then) and lecturing him on the proper way to bind a book.

Dean was pretty sure he'd be content to spend the next few hours like that.

* * *

THE END

* * *

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!

* * *

Oh, yes, and I promised you a teaser for the next fic, didn't I? Here it is… although I won't start posting till after exams:

_Once upon a time, when I was short and skinny and fourteen years old, Dad took a case in California. Over the years, he took a lot of cases in California – it's a big state, and not all of it is Silicon Valley and Hollywood – but this one concerned me closely._

_And Dean. Because, you know, he hasn't minded his own business since the day I was born (or for all I know, since the day he was born), so everything that concerns me winds up concerning him, too._


End file.
